


All Is Violent, All Is Bright

by lezzerlee



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Apocalypse, Challenge Response, Community: ae_match, Death References, M/M, Teenagers, Underage Character, Violence, team-angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-02
Updated: 2011-10-03
Packaged: 2017-10-22 03:14:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 11
Words: 27,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/233128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lezzerlee/pseuds/lezzerlee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Apocalypse AU  /  a.k.a bb!Survival  /  a.k.a. cockblockalypse!</p><p>In post-apocalyptical Vancouver, young Arthur learns how to survive ... with Eames.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [night_reveals](http://night_reveals.livejournal.com) for the beta on this story!

Arthur’s stomach growls angrily as he trudges through fallen branches near the edge of the forest. It’s been two days since he’s eaten anything, winter leaving nothing but bitter pine needles and soggy bark to chew on. He hasn’t seen a rodent in days, let alone trapped one, and he’d eaten the last of his opossum days ago.

He knows that he needs to venture into the city to scavenge for supplies, but the skeleton of civilization is dangerous to navigate. There are pockets of whatever chemicals and dangers were released from the destruction still lurking in the ruins. Even with the crumbling cascade of buildings creating rubble to hide behind, the streets leave him in the open, vulnerable to attack. There are many predators left, ones willing to venture into the streets searching for food, and it’s much easier to hide between trees, darting and climbing away from danger, than it is finding a spot in a building that won’t fall on top of him to moment he steps foot inside.

He’d lost Greg that way, this summer, trying to hide from a wandering grizzly bear before it caught sight of them. The bears will wait for days if they sense prey. They’ll wait until their target is too starved to do anything but emerge to the threat of deadly teeth in order to find water or food. He and Greg had sprinted to the nearest building, scrambling inside the broken walls. Greg had fallen through the fragile boards of the floor, twisted body landing on the cement of the basement thirty feet below. He’d gone through two levels but was still alive, crying out in pain and choking on his own blood. Arthur couldn’t do anything to help. There was no way down, and even if Arthur could reach him, no way to haul his friend up. If he had rope he might have had a chance, but really he was too small to lift Greg. Arthur still didn’t quite break one hundred forty pounds and Greg weighed so much more.

He spent the night quietly trying to console his friend into silence as to not draw the attention of smaller predators, ones that could weave their way inside the decaying building. In the morning Greg had fallen quiet, though Arthur knew he wasn’t dead. Listening to the ragged breathing and fearful whimpers bounce off the concrete below, Arthur stayed another night. The morning after, when Greg wouldn’t respond to his calls and his chest fell still, Arthur finally left, a ball of acid eating at his stomach. He hadn’t been sure if it was guilt or hunger. It was probably both.

He remembers hunting lessons with his dad as they cleaned their rifles, discussing what he should do if he encountered something like a bear or a wolf while out in the forest. He’d been told to make himself as big as possible, create as much noise as possible, use sticks and pans or a gun. “You have to be scarier than they are,” his father had said. At the time he had thought it was truly possible, that he could somehow be mightier than any beast that he might encounter.

He smiles wryly at the memory as he repairs the fletching on a few of his arrows. He knows now that the pretending to be bigger method doesn’t really work. Every creature is desperate for food, and he thinks that the bears have somehow grown much larger than he remembered ever seeing them as a kid. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t have his father’s solid presence to give him strength. His best bet is to avoid them, his second is a well placed projectile to a vital organ. At least with coyotes or cougars that’s the case — a bullet still won’t take down a charging bear.

He has a camp out in the forest, stocked with fabric and supplies. His food box is empty but he does have a water retrieval system that’s mostly meant for summer since the rainy winter has never left him wanting for it. He also has paper for sketching that is filled with buildings drawn from memory, ones that will never exist again, no one left to build them. Every once in a while he ventures into the library to pick through what’s left of the unburned books. He can only carry one at a time, the room in his pack saved for food, ammunition, and any other practical things he can manage to find.

Arthur stalks through the streets, rifle propped up against one shoulder and bag loosely hanging from his other. He’s already crossed the bridge into the the city from his area in the North, hoping as he navigated the holes and exposed rebar that it didn’t fall anytime soon. He’s not sure he could manage rowing across the inlet by himself when he needed to venture into the city for supplies. It would tack on an extra day of travel time as well. There is no way he can walk his way around, to enter by land. Not with how little food he can carry in his pack and still have room for what he finds later.

As he treads his way through the ruined city streets, his eyes dart back and forth, looking for trouble and looking for buildings he hasn’t searched yet. He has to venture farther into the city each time he makes the trek. He’ll have to camp somewhere tonight, and he vigilantly looks for a spot he could tuck away in as he makes his way towards the city’s center.

A few quick searches inside houses he hasn’t hit before has only turned out few extra blankets and some pants that won’t fall off his narrow hips. He needs new shoes, but ones that fit are rare. He hasn’t found any unspoiled food yet today. He’s passing by the oil refinery and has to shrug his heavy coat off. The complex caught fire just over two weeks ago and still burns, releasing heat and acrid smoke into the air. It’s somewhat pleasant against the wet cold of winter, but in order to be near it he has to wear his mask and goggles.

As he’s making his way along the abandoned streets, he keeps his eyes open for trouble. There are few survivors, here and there, camps of them even, but they aren’t friendly to outsiders. They’re not willing to take on the extra burden of feeding another body and will readily kill him for his supplies.

Arthur picks his way along, gas mask making his face hot an clammy as hot breath bounces back on his face. He’s not finding much until suddenly a rat scurries from beneath the rubble in front of him. Immediately he chases after it, digging a small slingshot out his pocket and wishing he had a box with him to capture it. It’s hard to aim through the goggles he wears and he wishes the smoke wasn’t so thick so he could pull them off.  He’s careful not to disturb anything that looks like a support structure as he chases after the rat.

Finally he has it cornered up against a fragmented wall when someone comes tumbling over the bricks scaring the rat away as they collapse in a heap of limbs and fabric. Arthur yelps with surprise before gathering his wits about him enough to lose the measly slingshot and aim his rifle instead.

“Bollocks,” exclaims the person as they scramble off the ground. Arthur’s aim doesn’t waver as he waits for what is apparently a young boy to get to his feet. The boy freezes when he realizes Arthur is there, holding a gun aimed squarely at his chest.

“Whoa, whoa, take it easy, mate,” his muffled voice says as he raises his hands in a placating gesture. Arthur doesn’t budge. “I got no problem with you, I’m just looking to get out of here, yeah?” Arthur can’t tell exactly what accent he has due to the kid’s gas mask, but there definitely is one.

“Fucking kid! I’ll skin you alive!” Someone shouts from behind the wall.

The kid flinches, shoulders tensing before he suddenly lunges forward and grabs Arthur’s wrist before Arthur can properly react or defend himself. He yanks Arthur at a dead run behind him and Arthur follows, helplessly pulled along. He shouldn’t be following but doesn’t want to stick around and meet whomever was screaming threats.

The kid leads him for a good six blocks before Arthur has the sense to try and break free from his grip. He’s winded and a little confused, heart is racing, veins pulsing with adrenaline at the fast escape. He tugs his arm away and stops, shoving his goggles and mask off to get a cool breath of air now that they’re farther away from the refinery.

The kid pulls off his mask, grinning, full lips stretched wide over his teeth. He slings his rifle across his shoulders casually and Arthur suddenly notices the tattoos that wind down his arm. Arthur realizes that the kid is more his age than he first thought, probably older. He’s in a tank top, despite the winter, and wears chains hanging from his neck. Arthur doesn’t really pay attention to what the chains have on them, he’s a little too angry at the moment and he’s still sucking gulps of air into his burning lungs.

“Sorry about that. Not a good person to run into, didn’t want to leave you behind.” The kid smiles again and Arthur sees that his teeth are slightly crooked but very white.

“You …  asshole,” Arthur hisses when he can finally breathe. “You fucking scared off my dinner!”

“I’m really sorry, mate. I was in a bit of a scrape though, couldn’t be helped.”

“Who the fuck was that?”

“No one, someone who doesn’t like me much.”

Arthur’s brows furrow in frustration and his stomach growls at him again. He feels a bit lightheaded after the running. He hasn’t had enough to eat to sustain that kind of physical activity. The kid looks truly apologetic upon hearing the angry noises coming from Arthur’s body.

“C’mon,” he says. “I know of a place.”

 

[](http://s698.photobucket.com/user/datingwally/media/art/innocence23.jpg.html)

art by [datingwally](http://datingwally.livejournal.com)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks [neomeruru](http://neomeruru.livejournal.com) for helping me out with details of Vancouver. I'm sure I messed things up anyway.


	2. Chapter 2

Arthur would be amused at the phrase, the kid making it sound like he’s taking him to his favorite restaurant. But he’s really too hungry to muster up a sense of humor. He follows though, the promise of food outweighing his mistrust for the moment. His stomach feels like it’s eating itself away.

They walk in silence for a while, warily watching their surroundings, and Arthur realizes they’re deeper into the city than he’s ever traveled on foot before. A pang of fear courses through his veins at the thought of losing his way in the burned out streets, but his stomach growls again and he pushes the worry away as he wonders where he’s being led.

“M’name’s Eames.” The kid says as they pick their way through the rubble, circling around the massive craters in the center of the city. Arthur thinks about not answering, still unsure exactly what he’s doing following a stranger into the city. Eames could be a cannibal for all he knows, leading him along with the promise of food, only to kill him and turn him into dinner later. But Eames seems genuine, so far as Arthur can tell, and so he answers thinking that if he acts like a dick, Eames will leave him behind.

“I’m Arthur,” he says quietly.

“Arthuurrr,” Eames drawls, rolling the end of this name over his tongue like he’s tasting it. “I like it. It’s classic.”

His voice is deep, smokey even, and Arthur thinks that Eames must be older than him after all. His own voice still cracks embarrassingly when he sings, or gets startled. Arthur scowls, wondering if Eames is making fun of his name. He knows it’s dated; he had been teased plenty of times in grade school. But Eames doesn’t say anymore than that so Arthur lets go of the retort he had ready: _what kind of name is Eames?_

They finally seem to arrive where Eames is leading him. They’re outside a rather miserable looking set of what probably used to be nice houses. There are still solid brick chimneys, but the roofs are completely collapsed; the wood of the walls is charred and fragile, barely standing upright. The trees that lined the road are are gnarled husks, reaching out like dark fingers into the empty sky.

“Wait here,” Eames says. Then he’s off, making his way inside the skeletal frame of a house. Arthur stays, watching the street for danger. After some time, enough to make Arthur fidget, Eames emerges with his backpack drooping heavily and an armful of canned food.

He sighs when he hands the cans he’s holding over to Arthur. “Last of that stash. Bit of a hoarder this one was, but I’ve been coming here often.”

Arthur takes the cans and puts them in his own bag. He’s very confused as to why Eames is giving him food. He wouldn’t do the same if their positions were switched. Arthur knows just how rare finding unspoiled food is, so he doesn’t turn down the offer, though he would not risk his own life being charitable to someone he doesn’t even know.

Arthur shoulders his pack and starts to head back towards the refinery. He has a method to searching houses, a grid he’s planned out so that he can easily remember which ones still have useful supplies and which ones are completely tapped of all resources.

“Hey, wait up.” Eames says, and Arthur sees that he’s shrugging on a military jacket. Arthur can see faded yellow and red and knows it’s German surplus. It hugs his shoulders snugly. It’s obvious that the jacket is something Eames has owned a long time, probably before the bombing. “Where are you headed?” Eames asks. Arthur is roused from his moment of staring.

“I have to find some supplies,” Arthur answers. He thinks that it’s a stupid question. _Where is anyone headed nowadays if not to find food, or clothing, or weapons?_

“What are you in the market for? I could keep my eye out for it,” Eames offers. Arthur looks at him skeptically.

“I’m fine on my own, thanks,” He says, and he starts to turn away. He doesn’t need Eames tagging along, privy to supply stashes, or taking half of anything they find. Arthur really can’t risk it, even if Eames did give him some of his food supply.

“Humor me, please. I haven’t seen anyone, besides that arsehole who was chasing me, in months. Especially not someone my age. So, what are you looking for?”

Arthur sighs. Eames has a point. Arthur also hasn’t seen anyone in months and it is kind of nice to be reminded that he’s not the only one out here. The world is depressing enough, but he still holds out some hope that people will come back, or he’ll run into a group that is friendly. It’s unlikely, but Arthur has to hope that he won’t always be alone. Not that he can’t handle it though. He’s been fine since the summer on his own. He’s survived, even if his only escape from the hardship of life now is books he’s read repeatedly and drawings of buildings destroyed by the blasts.

“I need waterproofing for my shelter,” he supplies. It really is a mistake to let Eames tag along, but he hasn’t had any voice besides his own in his head for a long time. And he finds that Eames’ accent is surprisingly pleasant. It really wouldn’t be too much trouble to hang out with Eames for a day.

“Right, waterproofing. Anything else?” Eames seems pleased by Arthur’s decision, giddy almost with his offer to help.

Arthur rubs at his wrist nervously, tugging at the sleeve of his jacket and lists out a few things he’s been searching for lately: shoes, plastic, ammunition, and fishing supplies. Eames seems to be listening intently. When he’s finished his list they head back towards Gastown, trekking around the craters. Arthur doesn’t continue with his grid, not with Eames here, so he starts somewhere new. It goes against everything he believes to break the system, one that had been working so well up until now. He memorizes the area they search, placing it in a new grid, one he can plot out later.

Eames doesn’t stop talking the entire way there. “Have you ran into any zombies?” he asks, wrists hanging loosely across the rifle draped on his shoulders. “I haven’t. I thought all apocalypses were supposed to have zombies, or at least motorcycle gangs.”

“You watch too many movies,” Arthur says.

“Wouldn’t that be great though? If it actually happened? Nobody thought this could happen, so why not the walking dead?”

“People thought this could happen,” Arthur replies. “That’s what the whole cold war was, people thinking about the other side bombing them.”

“Yeah but that’s The States, mate.” Eames says. “Who would bomb Canada?”

Arthur doesn’t have a good answer for that.

“Maybe it was aliens,” Eames says. “Maybe they came down to catalogue the world, saw what a shite-hole humans made of it, and decided to get rid of it. Like wiping a stain out of the universe. I bet they took all the dolphins with them, saving the smartest species, and left the rest of us here to die. But then, something went wrong, they miscalculated or something, and the whole world wasn’t obliterated, just some of it was destroyed.”

Arthur smiles despite himself at Eames’ ridiculous, rambling theory. He recognizes a bit of Hitchhiker’s Guide in there, but doesn’t point it out. Eames is obviously excited about having someone to talk to. Arthur doesn’t want to ruin it for him. He can even admit that it’s nice having someone around, for a few hours, even if said person is prone to wild and improbable theories.

It’s late morning the next day when Arthur decides to head back. They had both slept fretfully on the hard, uneven ground next to a demolished building. Arthur needs to cross the bridge before dark, not trusting himself to navigate the gaps in its crumbling form at night. He has most of the holes memorized, but it’s stupid and unnecessary to take the chance. If he heads back now, he’ll have the afternoon to organize and maybe do some repairs.

He has to shake Eames off somehow. He doesn’t want to lead him back to his camp. Eames seems like a nice guy, had shared his food and helped gather supplies, but Arthur doesn’t trust him. He can’t take the risk of Eames finding his camp and everything he keeps there. If Arthur is out hunting, Eames could come and steal whatever he wanted. Arthur has no idea where Eames has been living, and the likelihood of ever running into him again is slim. If Eames took off with his most valuable supplies, he wouldn’t be able to find him.

He can’t come up with anything sufficient, and Eames seems content to keep following him, so he decides that being blunt will be the best approach. He works up the courage to lay everything out like it is. It’s been entertaining, but he really does have to go home before nightfall.

“Listen,” Arthur says, swallowing hard. “It’s been nice … talking and all. But I’m going to my camp now.” Eames looks at him, smile still stuck on his face, not understanding yet. “I’m going to my camp, and you aren’t coming.” Eames’ face drops and Arthur tries not to think he looks like a kicked puppy.

“What’s wrong …” Eames starts to say, but Arthur cuts him off.

“Look, it’s not that I don’t like you or anything. But I like being on my own, okay? I don’t really need you hanging around and distracting me.”

“Distracting you? I thought we were having a good time.” Eames tries to punch Arthur in the shoulder in a friendly gesture, but Arthur pulls away angrily.

“I don’t need friends, okay? I don’t need you, and I don’t want you following me. So fuck off, all right?”

Eames stares at him. The air grows charged and Arthur knew it would be like this. He didn’t want any of this and he wishes Eames hadn’t run into him at all.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur whispers trying too dissolve the tension away with an apology. But Eames just narrows his eyes like he’s trying to pick Arthur apart.

“All right, mate. I get it,” Eames says after an agonizing moment, throwing his hands up in surrender. He turns quickly to walk away before Arthur can say more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [night_reveals](http://night_reveals.livejournal.com) for the beta!  
> Big thanks [neomeruru](http://neomeruru.livejournal.com) for helping me out with details of Vancouver. I'm sure I messed things up anyway.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [night_reveals](http://night_reveals.livejournal.com) for the beta!

Arthur tries to convince himself that he did the right thing. He doesn’t know Eames and he can’t risk everything he’s worked for just to have company. Even if Eames turned out to be a friend, it’s entirely likely that one of them will get hurt and Arthur can’t afford to take care of someone. He doesn’t how Eames has been surviving and doesn’t want to be endangered by Eames doing something stupid. Greg had at least been on the same skill level as Arthur. They grew up camping together. They were both in competition against each other, even if Arthur was the better archer.  For all Arthur know, Eames might not even know how to properly use the rifle he was carrying.

But trying to convince himself he’s made the right choice doesn’t make Arthur feel all that better. Eames was a little _imaginative_ sure, a little talkative, but Arthur had enjoyed being around him. The pack on his shoulders is heavy, reminding him of how generous Eames had been.

Walking back to his camp takes Arthur most of the evening and he thinks about Eames the entire way back. When he finally arrives he drops his pack down with a sigh, glad to be rid of it’s weight, and collapses onto his makeshift bedroll, exhausted from the journey. He’s disappointed to find that his guilt isn’t shrugged off as easily as the pack.

Throwing an arm over his eyes to block out the light, he thinks about how he could have handled this whole situation better. He could have put it more nicely and stayed calm. It was stupid to get angry and tell Eames to fuck off; now if he ever runs into Eames again, he’ll have to worry about possibly getting jumped. _Maybe he won’t be so mad,_ Arthur thinks. He did split what they found fifty-fifty so Eames didn’t come away with nothing from their search. But it’s stupid to create conflict as well. It’s just one more thing to worry about but Arthur can’t do much about it now, and he’s exhausted, so he tries to push his worries away and rest.

Arthur is about to drift into welcome sleep when he hears something moving, twigs snapping, and the scrape of something brushing against trees in the distance. Panic floods his veins as he jumps up to get his gun. In his exhaustion he has let his guard down, a stupid mistake; it’s the evening, perfect time for predators to hunt. He waits to see what’s coming his way, whether he has to run or has to fight. Arthur hasn’t had to deal with a scavenger in a while. He’s ready to fire, hoping he can hit whatever it is on the first shot and not waste precious ammo, when Eames comes waltzing out of the trees.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Arthur screams before he remembers it could draw unwanted attention. He lowers his voice into a low hiss instead. “How _the fuck_ did you find me?”

“Arthur, mate, you need some practice at covering your tracks,” Eames says, smiling smugly as he approaches.

“I cover my tracks just fine,” Arthur retorts angrily, because he does. He’s careful. He erases his footprints, he backtracks, he watches his surroundings diligently, and he doesn’t leave food around for predators to catch wind of. Eames has somehow managed to find him despite that and Arthur is angry that he was caught off guard.

“Yes, well, I’m used to tailing people,” Eames smirks.

“What, like a spy or something?” Arthur snaps. “You think you’re fucking James Bond?” His heart is racing and he can’t seem to make his breathing even out. His camp is compromised and he doesn’t know what to do about it right now.

“Not exactly,” Eames’ expression pull tight, his smile turning dark. Arthur’s grip on the rifle tightens, but Eames smile flashes friendly again quickly. “I brought you something,” he says cheerfully.

Eames shrugs off his pack, which doesn’t seem heavy but looks full, and starts to dig something out. Arthur has no idea what Eames could have in there and he’s a little nervous to find out. Still reeling from the fact that Eames followed him here, and warning bells in his mind sounding loudly, he’s half expecting Eames to pull a weapon, which would be foolish since Arthur is still clutching his rifle. Arthur’s brain is stuck in a cycle of planning an escape, what he can grab when he runs, what he can leave behind. He really doesn’t want to leave everything he’s worked so hard to gather, but his position is compromised now and he’ll have to find some new place to live that’s safe.

“Arthur, are you paying attention?” Eames voice cuts into his thoughts. “I said take this, mate.”  Eames shoves something towards him and for an absurd moment Arthur thinks it’s a wrapped present. It’s blue with purple tied around it, splotchy like faded wrapping paper. A sudden flash of memory —Christmas at his grandmother’s when he was seven years old; his dad gave him a fishing set, wrapped in blue— springs to Arthur’s mind and he freezes. He comes to his senses a moment later, realizing that it’s actually a bundle of plastic with a cord tying it up.

“You said you needed waterproofing,” Eames says, when Arthur takes the gift. It’s a blue tarpaulin that’s in fairly good condition.

“I, uh …” Arthur says intelligently, because he doesn’t know how to handle the fact that not only did Eames listen to him days ago, but he had given him yet another useful item Eames could be using for himself. Arthur doesn’t quite know how to handle this generosity, and he can’t even think straight enough to say thank you. He can’t believe Eames is even here.

Eames seems to not mind that Arthur is at a loss for words. He walks right by as Arthur stands, dumbfounded, still clutching the bundled tarp. When Arthur finally finds the wherewithal to turn around, he sees Eames poking around his stuff. Another flare of panic courses through him and he rushes back to his camp.

Arthur thinks Eames might be inventorying everything, storing away information on what Arthur has that Eames himself might find useful. But when he gets close he finds that Eames is focusing on the frivolous items Arthur keeps. He pokes through the stack of books, and the scattering of random photographs Arthur has collected just because he likes looking at happy memories even if they aren’t his own. When Eames comes across the drawings, he stops. Sifting through them, Eames starts pulling some of the better ones out.

“These are really good,” Eames says, and Arthur blushes. He shouldn’t feel this happy at such a small compliment, especially since he should still be angry at the intrusion into his home. It’s nice hearing that he has talent especially from someone other than his dad or his art teacher. Arthur hadn’t really had any time to develop his skills formally, and had to make due with his memories of the city, and book, as reference.

“Thanks,” Arthur says, finally finding a proper response. Realizing he’s still holding the tarp, he goes to set it down.

“Do you want to be an architect?” Eames asks as he thumbs through more drawings.

“I, uh, I don’t know. I never really thought about it,” Arthur lies. He’s known he wanted to be an architect ever since his teacher brought in an Ezra Stoller book during Arthur’s freshman photography class. He wasn’t that great at photography; it just didn’t appeal to him. So he tried to recreate the photographs in drawings, letting the dark lines of charcoal and graphite make beautiful images instead of chemicals and film.

That memory makes something bitter twist in the back of his throat. He had known what he wanted to be. He had found a direction in his studies, focusing on physics and geometry and trigonometry, all to aid in something he could see himself excelling in. He had even looked at information on some colleges, even if he was three years from graduation. It’s something he was passionate about. Something that will never happen now.

“It doesn’t really matter, not like it’s useful anymore,” he grits out, trying to tamp his memories, _his dreams,_ back down.

“Sure it is, mate,” Eames smiles. “Somebody has to rebuild the world.”


	4. Chapter 4

It’s clear, hours later, that Eames doesn’t intend to leave. Arthur wonders if he came here to drop off the tarp and then head back into the city, but Eames seems content to stay and look through Arthur’s camp, idly asking questions about some of Arthur’s possessions. Arthur is still weary, not knowing Eames’ motives, but he finds himself relaxing with the casual conversation. Eventually their discussion circles back to the blast; it’s inevitable, the bombing being such a central factor in each of their lives.

“How did you survive?” Arthur asks.

“Dumb luck, really.” Eames says. “I was out running an errand for … a friend. Wasn’t in the city when it all happened.”

Arthur scowls, but lets the lie go. He wouldn’t necessarily be comfortable sharing his own life story as well. It’s possible that something much worse happened that allowed Eames to survive. Arthur has seen enough to know that’s likely the case.

“Why’d you come back then?” Arthur asks instead.

Arthur stayed outside the city for a reason, not wanting to be in the middle of when the survivors eventually turned on each other. Tension coursed through the groups, back when the city seemed like the safer place to stay, splitting them apart into smaller packs that fought against each other for resources and territory. He didn’t want to be a part of that, didn’t want spend his energy fighting when he could be finding food. He had left to set up camp in the forest.

“No where else to go,” Eames answers plainly. Arthur understands; even though he tried to avoid the city after the violence broke out, he did have to stay close enough to it to get supplies. Staying across the inlet has it’s advantages. Very few people venture across the unstable bridges; those who stay in the city area of North Vancouver don’t often venture into the woods. He’s isolated, which keeps him safe.

It seems reasonable that Eames wouldn’t want to stay in the outlying areas though. Not everyone has the survival skills Arthur has, and finding supplies, especially where less people lived before everything was destroyed, can be difficult.

Eames settles, sitting on a plastic crate Arthur had picked up, thumbing through one of Arthur’s half-burned books. Arthur doesn’t quite know what to do with himself with Eames around, but his stomach answers for him by grumbling loudly and he remembers that the reason he met Eames at all is because he went looking for food. He digs out a can of beans from his pack, opening the lid carefully with a knife — he really needs to find a manual can-opener.

Arthur could just eat his food cold from the can, but a fire will keep him warm and a hot meal sounds like the best thing in the world after his grueling adventure through the city. He sets some of his wood pile in a fire pit, lighting it carefully and stoking the flames until they’re large enough to be left unattended. He then finds a pot and dumps half the can of beans into it. Rationing it and only eating a quarter of the can would be the best action, but he’s too hungry to limit himself right now.

Arthur sets the pot on the edge of the containment wall he’s built around the pit. He’s trying to build a makeshift grill so that he can cook above the fire eventually, but it’s not completed yet. Without the grill his food cooks unevenly and he has to keep turning the pot so the edges of his food don’t burn. The smell of cooking beans makes his stomach tighten angrily, impatient with the wait, and he tries to block it out by asking Eames more questions.

“You’re English,”Arthur says. It’s the first thing that stuck in his head after Eames took his gas mask off when they met.

“Astute observation, Arthur,” Eames laughs sarcastically.

“When did you … ?” Arthur gesticulates, trying to indicate the city while simultaneously controlling his annoyance at Eames’ tone.

“When I was ten,” Eames answers, apparently understanding Arthur’s unrefined waving. “Dad got a new job, packed us off to dear ol’ Canada here.”

Arthur could ask about Eames’ family, the statement being an obvious segue, but then he’d probably have to talk about his own. Bringing those memories up is too painful; it’s been less than a year since his dad died and he doesn’t want to think about it.

“You miss it?” Arthur asks instead.

“Arthur, look around us. Of course I miss it compared to this.” Eames waves his hand in a circle in the direction of the city, mimicking Arthur’s gesture from before.

Chagrined by giving Eames an opening for sarcasm, Arthur goes silent for few moments while he turns the cooking pot. He can’t think of any more questions to ask, he doesn’t really care, and his beans are now starting to boil so he pulls them from the fire to cool. Feeling eyes on him, he glances up to find that Eames is staring.

Arthur averts his eyes quickly. He had thought Eames was still reading, or searching through his possessions again, but apparently that’s not the case. He feels exposed under Eames’ cool gaze so he fumbles with his dinner as a distraction, shoveling in a mouthful before it’s properly cooled. The tip of his tongue burns, damaging some of his taste buds. Gasping and, opening his mouth wide to exhale over the food, he rolls it over his tongue to cool. Eames chuckles and Arthur frowns as soon as he can properly close his mouth to chew.

Arthur eats his dinner quickly since he can barely taste it with his damaged tongue. Usually he saviors the first meal after a supply run, but Eames is still glancing up at him him intermittently, and Arthur hasn’t offered any of his the food. Again he feels guilty, but Eames isn’t his family or his friend.

He doesn’t have to share.

Eames doesn’t seem too put-out by Arthur’s lack of manners. He pulls something wrapped out from his bag and begins munching on half of it. It is probably a stale granola bar or a Pop-Tart. After he’s finished eating, Arthur tries to start conversation again because he feels awkward just sitting with Eames.

“What else do you miss?” Arthur asks. He hopes the question is generic enough that they don’t get into family issues, or something similarly heavy. It doesn’t feel like something Eames can throw back at him as well. To guide the direction of the conversation he adds, “I miss pop like you wouldn’t believe.”

Eames groans a little with empathy. The sound is deep and warm, and Arthur’s gut clenches involuntarily upon hearing it. “I miss sticky toffee pudding, with proper custard on top. You couldn’t even get that here, before all this I mean, but I miss it. That was my favorite dessert.”

“I miss poutine.” Arthur says, face going a bit slack as he thinks about the savory, filling quality of his favorite food.

“Gross, mate.” Eames’ face scrunches in distaste.

“Shut the fuck up, it’s delicious!” Arthur nearly screeches. “I mean, how can you go wrong? It’s fries, which are amazing on their own. They have to be slightly crispy though, so when you add gravy and cheese it doesn’t get soggy. It’s the best! My favorite is the veggie gravy. My dad liked the beef kind better, but I could eat both. And, oh God, when the cheese is fresh and squeaks when you chew it; God I miss cheese. I think I could eat my body-weight in poutine right now.”

“Stop, stop, mate,” Eames laughs.  “I don’t even like the stuff and the way you’re going on about it; you’re making me hungry.” Eames doesn’t say it with any malice, but Arthur winces at the comment anyway, thinking about the beans he hadn’t offered Eames.

“You can have the rest of this can if you want. I don’t eat a whole can at a time.” Arthur goes to grab the half can of food left but Eames stops him.

“No, it’s yours, mate.”

“But you found it. You gave it to me.”

“It was a gift. Don’t worry about it.”

Arthur’s at a loss. He had felt a little guilty before about not offering Eames food, but now, with Eames insisting that it was a gift, he feels so much worse. The half-filled can feels heavy in his hand, like lead weight, mocking him.

“Just take the damn food.”

Eames gives him a scrutinizing look and Arthur again feels exposed under his stare. Arthur feels about three times smaller than he actually is as Eames looks at him like that. Arthur knows that if Eames refuses, he’ll feel awful the rest of the night. He should have been polite; Eames has been nothing but nice to him ever since they met.

“All right,” Eames finally relents. “If you insist.”

Arthur reaches over to give Eames the can, trying to act casual. Eames takes the proffered beans with a smile. Arthur is taken, yet again, at how white Eames’ teeth are, how they light up his face when he flashes them. Arthur’s a little entranced by it. It’s been so long since he’s laughed, or smiled, or seen someone else do the same. He doesn’t really notice he’s still holding onto the can until Eames gives him a funny look when he tries to pull it away. Dropping the can quickly, Arthur snatches his hand away and gives an awkward smile before he turns around to ready his bed.

Eames doesn’t bother warming the beans, instead scooping them out, as is, with the spoon Arthur had left in the can. Realizing that Eames can’t travel back to the city tonight and that he doesn’t have anywhere for Eames to sleep, Arthur starts to gather up his spare fabric, as many of big pieces he can find, to make a second bed near the fire.

He can’t just let Eames freeze during the night. The tarp that Eames brought him will keep him dry for a long time and Arthur can’t just shrug that generosity off again. Eames can stay the night, and in the morning he’ll be on his way back home. Maybe Arthur can offer some of his less necessary supplies to Eames in exchange.

When Arthur looks up from his thoughts, Eames is picking at the food. He’s only eaten half of what’s left, it seems, before he sets it down. Arthur wonders if Eames wasn’t hungry after all. He guesses it doesn’t really matter. He offered and Eames accepted, that’s what counts. With nothing left to do, Arthur sits on his own bed and pulls out the book he’s been reading: Good Omens. Eames wanders over the bed Arthur has made for him and sits down.

“That’s a good one,” Eames says after dipping his head sideways to read the cover.

Arthur nods. He kind of relates to Crowley. It is a little weird though, to be reading a story about the apocalypse with the city—and who knows how much of the rest of world—burned out around him. But it’s one of the few fiction books he has.

Eames picks up a singed copy of 1984 from among the random assortment, and sits down on his bedding. “You have a strange collection,” he says. “Cook books, theoretical mathematics, _The Cat Who Moved A Mountain?_ "

“I just pick up what I can find,” Arthur replies.

“Well it’s better than the lot of romance novels my mom used to keep.”

“I have a couple of those as well.”

“Do you now? Well, I’ll have to check them out.” Eames chuckles. “Where did you find all these?”

“The library.”

“No shit. Never would have thought. The library …”

Arthur rolls his eyes, but he can’t help corners of his lips tugging up. They read until it’s too dark to see, with the light from the fire finally dying down. Arthur stokes the coals once more so that they’ll at least burn through the night. He wraps himself in his blankets, bundled up tight against the frigid night air, and drifts off to sleep.

When Arthur wakes in the morning his eyes immediately dart to Eames’ bed. It’s empty. He sits up in dismay, still slightly groggy from sleep, looking to see if anything is missing. He should have known not to sleep with Eames here. Arthur gave Eames the perfect opportunity to rob him blind. He’s already mentally kicking himself when he sees movement out of the corner of his eye.

When Arthur spins around, he finds Eames is sitting on the crate again, eating the rest of the open can of beans. The sense of relief that washes over Arthur punches the air from his lungs in breath. He thought that Eames had taken off, possibly with something important, like his gun or ammo, and is glad to find that’s not the case. A remaining sense of paranoia remains though, from the fact that Eames _is_ still here.

Eames doesn’t seem intent to leave. He’s eating slowly and reading more of Arthur’s book, hanging the spoon from his lips like a lollipop between bites. Arthur isn’t staring at the way his lips pillow around the metal and the way his fingers barely hold the handle.

When Arthur is able to stand, Eames looks up. “Morning, sunshine,” he grins.

Arthur doesn’t respond and resists the urge to return the smile. He digs through the new food find something for breakfast. He pulls out canned pumpkin and opens it. This time he only eats a quarter of the can, saving the rest. To store the remainder, he searches for Tupperware in his collection of dishes and when he finds one, deposits the fruit inside. The plastic seals in the smell of the food. It’s still not safe to keep open food near his shelter though, so he slips on his boots to take the dish to an area he keeps outside his camp.

It wasn’t a smart idea to let Eames keep part of the beans out last night, and he berates himself for the oversight. Invading animals are not something he wants to deal with. There are raccoons, skunks and—of course—bears that can completely destroy his camp. Thinking about the animals reminds him that he should go trapping and hunting. Now that he has some food in him, it won’t seem like such an insurmountable task.

Eames eyes him as he returns to the camp. “Feel better?” he asks and with a leer.

“What?” Arthur responds, confused by the question.

“You were gone a while. Figured you were off _you know._ ” The gesture Eames makes is obscene. Arthur flushes red, white-hot embarrassment causing his brows to furrow into an angry scowl.

“I was storing the open food, you ass. Can’t keep it in camp, you know.”

“Whatever you say, mate,” Eames laughs, clearly not believing Arthur’s story. “I’m not judging.”

Arthur busies himself preparing his trapping and hunting gear. Even if he was \ out jerking off, it’s none of Eames’ business. And Arthur wasn’t anyway. He pockets extra bullets for his rifle and readies his bow, making sure he has his glove and bracer.

“Hunting trip, yeah? Mind if I tag along?” Eames has somehow moved to Arthur’s side without him noticing and Arthur nearly jumps when Eames speaks. Forcing his nerves to settle, he looks over his shoulder to find Eames trying to suppress a pleased smile. He’s obviously amused by making Arthur jump. Arthur swallows thickly and nods. Leaving Eames here is not something he is willing to do and if Eames isn’t heading back home, he’ll have to tag along for the hunt.

Arthur thrusts a bag of his trapping gear into Eames’ hands. With two people Arthur will be able to keep his eye out for large game as well as set snares for smaller animals. It might actually be convenient having Eames around for this today; it will take him half the time to do both tasks. “Don’t fucking drop this.” he says.

They set off for the long hike into the woods. Eames doesn’t stop talking. Now that he has someone to speak to, it seems he doesn’t ever want to stop. Arthur would mind if they were farther in, Eames possibly scaring off prey, but they have a fair distance to travel before they’ll likely run into any animals and the trek can be boring on his own.

“It’s weird, yeah? I always thought that the future was going to be like that book you have, all government watching everything you do and making sure you fit in their plan and all. I mean cell phones already tracked everywhere you went. People complained about it, then they would go and use it for check-ins that tell exactly where they went anyway. But I really thought it was going to be like that, with microchips under your skin and your life narrowed down to ones and zeroes.”

Arthur nods absently. He’d never really thought that far in the future he realizes. He’d thought about upcoming goals, college, but nothing past that too far. Even Architecture was just a dream. He didn’t even know if he wanted a family someday; not that he’ll ever have one now.

“So what did you do, before all this?” Eames asks. “Art? School?” He kicks a fallen pine cone out of his path.

“School, yes, and art, and sports …” Arthur says, but Eames cuts him off before he can finish.

“What sports?”

“Archery mostly.” Arthur steps up a rocky incline, shrugging his shouldered rifle back so it doesn’t get caught as he uses a tree for balance.

“Archery’s a sport?”

“There’s competitions, and trophies and stuff. So, yeah.”

“But there’s no running and athleticism, like soccer or something. It’s not really a sport sport.”

“There is when you do something like the archery biathlon, which is cross country skiing and shooting. But archery is an Olympic sport anyway, you know.”

“Oh, yeah. The Olympics just allowed anything in though, didn’t they? What with curling, and ballroom dancing.”

Eames's eyes are pointed down towards his feet as he navigates the terrain, when Arthur glances back at him with a raised eyebrow. “Hey, you try any of those sports and tell me how easy they are. Dancing is fucking hard. So is curling,” Arthur snorts.

“Whatever you say, mate,” Eames replies, looking up with an easy smile.

Arthur leaves the conversation there. They’re far enough into the forest now that they should keep talking to a minimum. Eames seems to pick up on that fact when Arthur stops responding to questions and begins setting up his snares. Hopefully he’ll catch a rabbit; even a squirrel would be welcome prey.

They trudge through the woods for most of the afternoon, setting up wire snares and a few conibear traps. He has some foothold traps, but he doesn’t like putting the animals through more pain than necessary. At least snares hurt less, and Arthur can put the animal out of its misery quickly when he comes back.

Arthur would prefer just shooting his dinner, but it’s unrealistic to depend solely on hunting for food. Running into game is infrequent. If he had the leisure of spending a whole week hunting, without worrying about running out of canned food, or water, or animals raiding his camp, he might be able to bring in a deer or two. But he can’t be away that long, so trapping is his best bet.

When they’re done, and are on the way back to his camp, Arthur asks Eames about his past. “So what did you do, before?”

Eames laughs but doesn’t miss a beat before answering, “I was in the circus, mate, training for the trapeze. But I wasn’t good enough to perform yet, so they had me mucking out the animal cages and doing odd jobs while I worked up to it.”

“I thought you said you were James Bond.” Arthur smiles, because Eames’ story is such bullshit, but he finds it amusing anyway.

“No, that’s what _you_ said. I never said that.” Eames points his finger accusingly at Arthur as he grins. “I said I tail people. Training you know, following my teacher around everywhere to get in his head. He’s a method performer.”

“You are so full of shit. You can’t be a method performer for trapeze. It’s not like he’s being an actor.”

Eames shrugs but doesn’t defend the accusation. They walk for a while in silence, picking their way back through the trees. “What do you think happened?” Eames asks when they’re nearly to Arthur’s camp.

“What do you mean? It was bombed.” Arthur’s not trying to be sarcastic, but it comes out that way anyway.

“No, I mean, who. Why?”

“I don’t know. It could be any number of reasons,” Arthur shrugs. “Were you alone when it happened? Where’s your family?”

 _Fuck,_ Arthur thinks as soon as he’s asked the question. He could kick himself for bringing up the subject. In his haste to turn the conversation towards Eames he’s brought up the one thing he doesn’t want to think about.

“I don’t have family,” Eames says flatly.

“But you said your dad moved you out here. Did they die before the blast or something?”

 _Jesus fuck,_ Arthur thinks again because he’s blurting out the most inappropriate questions. It’s tactless, but he can’t take it back.

“Not exactly.” Eames looks slightly agitated when he answers. Then it dawns on Arthur, a reason why Eames would be alone when the attack went down.

“Did you run away or something?”

Eames pauses, like he’s trying to decide if he should say anything at all. His expression is guarded and slightly pained. Arthur’s chest tightens with regret, wishing he could take his question back. “Yeah, mate. It’s how I’ve survived all this. Learned to take care of myself, you know? Lived on the streets awhile.”

Arthur doesn’t have a response for that. He stares ahead as he walks, searching the trees for movement and thinking about what life on the street must have been like. He wonders why Eames ran from his parents. He can’t imagine leaving his dad. They’re all each other had.

“Did you have a good reason to run?” Arthur asks, voice low and soft.

“Yeah,” Eames sighs, but doesn’t elaborate. Eames stares at the path in front of them, shoulders tense. He’s not looking up at Arthur between steps anymore. Arthur wants to ask more, he wants to know everything about why Eames ran, he wants to understand, but he lets it go. Eames is already upset enough.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur says instead, pausing in the path.

“For what?” Eames laughs bitterly as he adjusts his bag. “I get it, you’re curious. No harm done.”

“No. I’m sorry your family sucked, you know? Sorry you had to run away.”

Eames looks up at him with that intense gaze again, the one that makes Arthur feel laid bare, like Eames can see right through him. He’s only known Eames for two days and he already feels like Eames has figured him out.

They continue to walk quietly for a little while, leaving the conversation behind with every step they take. Eventually, Eames is the one who tries to start a conversation again, about something inane, but Arthur isn’t really listening anymore. He keeps imagining what it was like for Eames on the street. He deals with this type of life because he has to, because there is nothing else, and he knows he had a good life before. This is just a lot of the same for Eames, worse maybe, which Arthur thinks is horrible. Nobody deserves a life like that.

When they get back to camp, they busy themselves for the rest of the day. Arthur strains his water supply through nylons to get the debris out and stores it in some jars and pitchers he’s scavenged. He’ll boil it later to kill most of the bacteria. Eames helps him after watching Arthur do one bucket. By the time they're done with all of them, it’s starting to get dark.

The hunting trip took a while, even with Eames’ help, and suddenly Arthur realizes how hungry he is from the hike. He goes off to retrieve the pumpkin from the Tupperware outside camp and brings it back, wishing he could open something new. However, he doesn’t want the opened food to spoil, even if it is cold enough for the weather to be a natural refrigerator. He cooks enough for both him and Eames this time.

They sit and eat in silence for a while before Eames asks, “What about you? Where’s your family?”

Arthur shifts uncomfortably. It was inevitable that Eames would ask, he knows. He brought up the subject in the first place. Arthur owes Eames an answer.

“My mom died when I was five. It was just me and my dad after that. My...my dad, and a friend of mine, were on a camping trip when the blasts happened. We could see the smoke from the fires; it was so huge. So we survived by luck too, I guess.”

“So, where are they now?” Eames hesitates in asking, his face pinching as he fiddles with his spoon. Arthur thinks it’s a fair question with the ones he asked earlier.

“He, uh …” Arthur swallows before continuing, “we were fine for months. Then my dad got injured, broke his leg when we were out hunting by falling into a ravine. It was pretty bad, the bone …”

It’s hard for Arthur to repeat the events, he chokes a little on the words. “It was a compound fracture, and it got infected, and we didn’t have any antibiotics. Greg and I got him back to camp, but when the infection set in, it got so bad he couldn’t move. It just got worse, until he couldn’t eat anymore, couldn’t even stay awake. His body … he was so thin, and so sick. Then one morning he was gone.”

Eames reaches out to grasp Arthur’s hand, to comfort him as tears begin to stream down Arthur’s face. The memories of watching his father die flood his mind. He can clearly remember the sweat-slick pallor of his father’s fevered skin, the smell of the infection, the sound of labored breathing. It haunts his dreams some nights.  Pushing past the memories he tries to continue.

“Then it was just me and Greg, but …”

Arthur can’t. The words get stuck in his throat and he turns his head away, trying to block out the images of his friend slowly dying as he could do nothing to help him. Eames doesn’t push for more. He just sits, clutching Arthur’s hand reassuringly as they sit by the fire.

***

Eames stays for weeks. They fall into a rhythm around each other. Each morning they eat a little breakfast then they go off to check their traps. Sometimes they head farther into the forest to hunt, but usually have to rely on the occasional rabbit, opossum, or raccoon for their food.

Eames always talks, weaving false tales about his past, or making up strange scenarios they may encounter in the future. He’s always planning for something crazy to happen, like roving gangs of cannibals, or a surviving military convoy rolling through. Arthur hopes that nothing that exciting ever actually happens.

Arthur teaches Eames how to sets snares properly; the conibears are fairly straightforward but the snares take some practice to perfect. He also teaches Eames how to dress a kill, making sure to cut the skin away cleanly as to not contaminate the meat with parasites. He shows Eames how to check the liver for disease and remove the entrails without bursting the intestines—just like his dad taught him. They have to be careful of contracting parasites, of not letting the meat spoil and curing it properly. Without much salt to preserve the meat, they have to eat their kill before they eat any of the canned food and they have to smoke it as much as possible without the help of a proper shed.

Eames doesn’t like killing the animals when they find them alive in the snares but Arthur makes him do it, at least a couple times, so Eames knows what to expect. Eames said he used to kill rats and stuff for food, but snapping a small rat’s neck isn’t quite the same as putting down a fluffy rabbit.

The look on Eames face the first time heard the a rabbit scream made Arthur want to reach out and hug him. He never wanted to put Eames through something like that again, but he knew that Eames was better off knowing how to safely trap and hunt. As Eames knelt over the bloody carcass, staring and looking sickly pale, Arthur placed a firm hand on Eames’ shoulder and told him that he did just fine.

The screaming and the blood still set Arthur’s nerves on edge, but he had to learn to deal with it and Eames has to learn also. They haven’t found any proper fishing gear yet, so a daily catch isn’t going to happen. Maybe if they plan another excursion in to the city they’ll get lucky. The nets Arthur has tried are more difficult and time consuming than he can afford when trapping works better.

It’s nice, having someone around. Arthur’s forgotten how easily things get accomplished with two sets of hands. Eames is always chatting, drowning Arthur’s doubts with reassurances or occupying his thoughts with trying to figure out when Eames is being serious or not instead of worrying about everything constantly. Eames gives him something to focus on. It makes the days go by faster. And Arthur is a little reluctant to admit it, but it’s nice having Eames at night now that it’s the end of winter; they can huddle closer together to keep warm. Arthur remembers when he, his dad, and Greg would do the same. Plus if they head to the city, it’ll be faster to search for supplies with Eames.

They’re washing the dishes as best they can in a stream, and Eames is telling him about his childhood as a performance artist, juggling or doing card tricks for audiences in some London park, pickpocketing unknowing spectators when he switched off with a friend. Arthur’s not sure if he believes this story either, but it sounds at least more plausible than some of Eames’ other tales. Arthur doesn’t want to interrupt and resolves to bring up scavenging with Eames in the morning.

The sun is bright when Arthur wakes. He’s cold, colder than usual since Eames and him started sleeping closer together as winter dragged on. Usually that means Eames has woken up first and started breakfast, but Arthur doesn’t smell food.

He sits up, stretching his arms out to work the sleep out of his system. Looking around for Eames, he crawls out of his bed. Arthur doesn’t see him anywhere. Eames could be off relieving himself or something, jerking off maybe. Arthur doesn’t think anything of it.

So he goes to gather some meat from the food stash and starts the fire back up to heat breakfast. He has their rations heated quickly, but Eames still hasn’t returned. Arthur starts to get a niggling feeling of worry on the back of his neck. There’s no reason why Eames should be gone this long, unless he was injured. Arthur tries not to think of anything worse.

He eats his portion of the breakfast and packs Eames’ ration away. He stores it away from camp again, even if Eames comes back. He knows something isn’t right, can feel it in his gut. Gathering his rifle and bow, Arthur sets off into the woods to check the traps. He wants to wait for Eames, but leaving a captured animal out means he’s likely to lose it to another predator scavenging his trap.

The hike seems so much longer without Eames’ stories to entertain him. The trees are silent, the wind the only noise besides Arthur’s heavy footsteps. It takes a while to check each trap, and Arthur comes back empty handed. He’s half expecting, hoping even, to see Eames’ sitting next to the campfire, reading another book with an apology waiting for why he’s missed the hike. But when Arthur gets back, Eames isn’t there.

Anger flares inside Arthur’s. _Where the fuck are you?_ he thinks, and _This isn’t fucking funny, Eames._ Because maybe it’s a bad joke, maybe Eames is waiting out in the woods to spring on Arthur and startle him. But it seems really unlikely. In just the few weeks they’ve stayed together, Eames hasn’t seemed one for practical jokes. Stories, sure, but not pranks.

Then a devastating thought hits Arthur. Maybe this was Eames’ plan the entire time. To lull Arthur into a sense of safety while smuggling useful supplies away to a place where he could grab them quickly and take off. But when Arthur searches through his camp he finds nothing missing.

Eames has simply disappeared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [night_reveals](http://night_reveals.livejournal.com) for the beta!
> 
> Big thanks [neomeruru](http://neomeruru.livejournal.com) for all the help with Vancouver as well as sending me inspiring pictures of poutine. Thanks to [la_fours](http://la_fours.livejournal.com) for a wondrous description of why poutine is delicious. Thanks to [eternalsojourn](eternalsojourn.livejournal.com) for suggesting Eames' favorite dessert from her trip to England.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [night_reveals](http://night_reveals.livejournal.com) for the beta!

The next day, Arthur tries not to think about every scenario in which a predator could have attacked Eames when he went off for his morning piss. He tries not to think about Eames somehow getting lost on a walk and wandering in circles, deeper and deeper into the forest where he’d die of exposure when the night gets too cold. Arthur tries not to think of wandering bandits running into him, killing him, and leaving the body in the forest.

The second day after Eames disappears, Arthur doesn’t check the traps. Instead he searches around the camp, walking in a spiral circle out into the forest, praying he won’t find a corpse. He doesn’t. He makes it a few miles out, half a day wandering the woods, and he doesn’t find anything.

The third day after Eames is gone, Arthur decides that Eames simply left. That’s the best explanation Arthur has. It’s the only explanation that doesn’t leave his stomach in knots. Eames just left. Maybe he was tired of Arthur. Maybe he just wanted to fuck with Arthur’s head. _Maybe Eames is just a giant asshole._

After searching the camp again, Arthur realizes that Eames’ gun and pack are missing. It confirms it in his mind; _Eames is a huge asshole and good riddance._ Arthur doesn’t need him and he didn’t even want him around in the first place.

But that’s a lie. It’s been three days and he already misses Eames. He misses the jokes, the stories, and the partnership. He misses the way Eames smiles at him. Arthur had tried for so long to convince himself that he doesn’t need any friends after Greg died. Then Eames had to go and shatter his defenses.

When Arthur goes to bed that night, he shivers from the cold. It’s not even the worst of winter yet. The fire seems like it’s not enough without Eames’ body-heat next to him and he wonders how he’ll make it through. The night seems silent without Eames’ heavy breathing. All Arthur can think about is how _alone_ he feels and how dangerous it can be for Eames to be off on his own. Eames managed to survive before, and now he knows how to hunt and trap, because Arthur taught him, but that doesn’t make Arthur worry any less.

He sighs and wraps the blanket around him tighter. He could go looking for Eames, but he doesn’t even know where to start. Eames had never told him where he was living before. Wandering the city without any kind of lead would be dangerous. Arthur doesn’t know if Eames is really worth the the effort. If Eames left on purpose, how would he react if Arthur just showed up? What was Eames motivation for following him back to his camp before anyway? Friendship? It’s obvious that’s not the case, or else Eames wouldn’t have just left without saying anything.

Arthur tosses and turns all through the night, unable to shut his brain off. The next two days are long and tedious. He checks his traps in the morning, strains his water, and repairs broken supplies. Reading is too stagnate and he finds that he has to do something physical to not want to scream from frustration.

In the evening, all he has is his thoughts. _Fuck Eames,_ Arthur thinks, for allowing him to get used to having a companion. He used to be fine spending a entire day alone, doing nothing. But now the monotony of the day is too much without the sound of Eames’ voice. Agitation makes Arthur restless; soon he’s completed every task he can think of, besides hunting for big game or scavenging.

Arthur could go into the city again, though. He’s about due for more food and could always use ammo. He decides that’s what he’ll do tomorrow. He’ll go on a supply run, hoping it will make him feel better, hoping that he can forget about Eames. Or maybe, he’ll run into Eames. It’s a long shot, but he can hope. On that thought, Arthur drifts into sleep, still, still alone, but at least he doesn’t wake through the night, thoughts finally calmed with the new goal in sight.

***

The sun is bright in the sky, like it always is with no solid walls, or a roof over his head. It’s early, the crisp morning air not yet warm enough to melt the layer of frost that settles in the early morning hours. It’s the perfect time to wake up; it’s early enough that Arthur will have plenty of time to get to the city and still search houses today, making the trip shorter, but not so early he will be freezing for most of the walk.

Arthur still shivers from the cold when he stretches, the blanket falling away from his body. He feels so much better now that he has a plan. Getting over Eames should be easy, so long as he keeps himself occupied. He’ll find more things to do, things that take more time to complete, like building his grill.

Sitting up and rubbing his eyes, Arthur contemplates what he wants for breakfast. Nothing is open and his meat will last, so he can choose anything. It’s always his favorite day when he can pick a new can of food.

“Morning, sunshine!”

Arthur yelps and Eames bursts into a fit of laughter as Arthur tries to calm himself. All of Arthur’s blood is rushing through his veins and after the initial shock, he’s impossibly angry. This is the second time Eames has caught him completely off guard.

“What the fucking-fuck?” Arthur screams, shoving the blankets completely off to scramble to his feet. He rushes towards Eames and grabs a handful of his shirt, shoving him off the crate Eames is perched on. Eames just continues to laugh, raking in loud breaths between his fits.

“All right, all right. Calm down, Arthur,” Eames says, catching his breath. “Wake up on the wrong side of the bed?”

“What the fuck are you doing here? Where the fuck were you?” Arthur balls his fists at his sides The wave of emotion that hits him is confusing. One second he wants to break Eames’ nose, to punish him for making him worry. The next second he wants to wrap his arms around Eames’ waist and never let go. Arthur’s mind keeps looping over the same thoughts. _Eames is alive, he thinks gratefully. He’s back._

“Don’t look so worried, Arthur. Everything is fine,” Eames says as he picks himself up off the ground and brushes pine needles from his clothes.

Arthur shoves his hands through his hair, pulling the curls away from his face in frustration and paces back and forth. “I _was_ fucking worried, okay? You can’t … you can’t just disappear like that!”

Eames amusement drops, his expression turning hard. He grabs Arthur’s wrist, to stop him from walking in circles. “Hey, hey. It was just a short trip, nothing to fret over, yeah?”

“You didn’t tell me you were leaving,” Arthur hisses, snapping his wrist from Eames’ grasp. “What was so important that you had to just take off without saying anything?”

Eames gaze falls to the ground, and the muscles of his jaw jump beneath his skin. Arthur turns away and again fights the urge to deck Eames. When he’s calmed enough to look at him again, Eames is giving him the most apologetic look he can muster.

“I’m sorry, mate. I just went to go get some supplies.” Eames is voice is strained. It’s obvious he is laying the olive branch, choosing not to give in to anger.

“Supp … ?” Arthur looks around and there are four, new, full bags sitting on the ground by the crate. “Why didn’t you tell me? I could have helped.”

“No offense, but you are one paranoid kid, and if you ever decide to turn on me, I have no doubt you’d take everything I had, and then some, to survive. I figured it was smart to keep where I lived secret, just in case.”

Arthur scowls at the implication that he would turn on Eames. But when he thinks about it more, he has to admit that it’s a smart idea. He probably would take anything he needed from Eames, if he had the chance — if they weren’t friends.

“So why did you come back?” Arthur says flatly, crossing his arms over his chest protectively.

“Your place is nicer,” Eames grins, ignoring Arthur’s tone.

“Yeah, I don’t doubt that. But what am I supposed to do if _you_ turn on _me_?”

“You’ll just have to trust that I’m a nice guy,” Eames replies. They stand there awkwardly for a few moments, letting the comment hang in the air. Arthur is the first to break the silence.

“So, what did you bring?”

Eames face lights up and he goes to sift through the bags. He pulls out cans of food first, a fair amount for the both of them. Eames continues to pull new items out: a bed-roll, blankets, jackets, clothes, and finally some paints and a large paper pad.

“You paint?” Arthur asks, pulling the pad toward him and flipping it open. The pages are splashed with color, each in a different style. Arthur recognizes impressionism, surrealism, and even baroque, his art history class paying off as he turns through the pages.

“I don’t have any canvasses,” Eames says as he puts some of the supplies away. “So they’re not as good as they should be.”

Arthur flips through more of the work. The paintings are raw, lacking proper precision and time spent on them, but it’s obvious that Eames is talented capturing different styles. Eames continues to unload as Arthur looks through the rest of the paintings and Arthur forgets that he’s angry at Eames at all.

***

They don’t have to go scavenging in the city for a while after Eames came back with food, so they fall back into their routine of checking traps, purifying water, and doing odd tasks, like laundry.

Now that Eames brought his own supplies, they create worlds together; Arthur draws the landscape, cities, houses, and Eames populates the streets and adds color. At first they started with sections of Vancouver that they both remembered, but moved on to fantasy worlds later. All of their paper becomes filled with skyscrapers and castles, men, women, and children. Dragons, tigers and griffins populate the same space as modern geometric houses or Italianate mansions. When they run out of proper paper, they start to decorate the blanks of book pages.

They’ll often draw late into the night, shoulder to shoulder next to the fire. It’s comforting to Arthur having Eames near, touching as they talk. Sometimes, they’ll fall asleep that way, right next to each other and wake up huddled close. Arthur tries not to think of what it means to feel so happy to have Eames touch him, or how much he wants it. He tries not to dwell on how comforting it feels to lay awake mornings and feel Eames’ breath on his neck. Because, if he thinks too hard on it, he might ruin it. This is the first time Arthur’s been not miserable in months. It’s the first time he’s actually been happy in a year. It’s the first time, since his dad died, that he feels safe.

When they do go scavenging, they make a point of finding art supplies. If they have room in their pack, they’ll take paint, markers, and pens. It gives them something to do, to bide their time. It’s something for them to talk about, to dream about, to lose themselves in. It’s something to look forward to after a long day of hauling traps or building a stronger shelter. When they scavenge, it becomes second nature for Arthur to think of Eames anytime he finds clothes to share, food to eat, or discovers something that’s just interesting to see. Arthur loves finding something Eames will enjoy. Sweets always get Eames excited; Arthur found five candy bars on their last trip. Eames made them last for three weeks, savoring little portions after every dinner.

They’re due for another foray into the city, and Arthur keeps it in his mind to find a treat for Eames, if he can that is; they’re not guaranteed to find anything. Most of the city has been picked over pretty well by now. Arthur hopes that in the spring they’ll be able to plant a garden. They’ll need to grow their own food soon, in order to have enough to eat. One of Arthur’s cooking books, from the library, mentions seasonal vegetables, so he can plan what to grow, and when, but Arthur’s never had a green thumb. He hopes he and Eames can help make it work. Making a mental note to look for more seeds he also thinks of more they need, like medical supplies. They always need medical supplies. They don’t have any antibiotics and are running low on bandages and antiseptic.

They pack up, rifles in hand, and head out. The journey across the bridge seems much shorter with Eames. The scavenging goes faster. Arthur has taught Eames his method of searching in a grid, to memorize the places they’ve already hit. They continue to use it, though Eames often makes them break out of every once in a while because he _has a feeling on this one_ or _that one just looks cool._

They’re wandering off the grid due to one of these feelings when they come across a pharmacy. It’s nearly completely collapsed, but Eames finds a large enough hole that he thinks he can get inside.

“I told you, I had a feeling about this one,” Eames says as he hands Arthur his rifle to hold. “I’m going in.”

Eames hands Arthur his rifle and slips the pack off his shoulders. Prying some boards loose around the blocked entrance, Eames clears the hole to get inside. Arthur chews on his lip nervously but resigns himself to the task of lookout while Eames goes searching for precious medications. The building seems stable enough, the roof is already partially collapsed, but seems to be holding out.

Seeing the grim look on Arthur’s face, Eames tries to reassure him. “You worry too much, Arthur. It’ll be fine, trust me.”

Arthur does. He does trust Eames, now. Arthur has seen Eames wriggle his way in and out of the smallest spaces to search for things. Somehow, Eames manages to make it into spaces that Arthur, who is smaller, can’t find his way through. If anyone can get supplies out of this mess of a building, it’s Eames. So Arthur sighs and Eames turns, makes his way to the small hole and twists his shoulders in an elaborate arch, ducking his head to slip inside. The moment Eames disappears from view, Arthur’s stomach balls up with nervous tension. It’s only been a minute, he’s sure, but it feels already feels like forever.

Arthur sits amongst the rubble, dropping the pack and rifle onto the grown. His toes flex to bounce his leg up and down and he draws his knees to his chest. After a few moments he stands again, brushing his hands through his hair nervously and paces. He wonders if he should go in, tell Eames that they don’t need whatever is in there, even though they do. He kicks a few pebbles away as he spins on his heel, pacing back.

An ominous groan emerges from the rubble. The telltale splintering of wood signifying the collapse of support beams rips through the still air. Arthur can practically feel the shift inside. He can hear the debris falling, loosened particles trickling to the ground. His heart skips a beat, then two. He can’t breathe.

“Oh fuck. Oh fuck!” Arthur starts for the entrance, but a section of the roof sags violently, shifting the rest of the structure’s frame. “Eames!” He screams as he stops in his tracks. Hearing no response, he starts forward again.

The entrance has shifted with the rest of the building, closing off the gap to get in. _Or out,_ Arthur thinks. His mouth goes dry at the thought. Eames is trapped.

“Say something? Eames!” He calls again, running his hands along the wall as he stumbles around the building, looking for another way in. “Eames!”

The only answer is the rumbling collapse of the roof. Arthur staggers back from the debris, falling back on his wrists as a thick cloud of dirt filling the air. Coughing from inhaling the dust, Arthur scrambles to his feet. “Eames!” He chokes out, and his eyes are streaming, from the dust, from the terror lurching through his body.

“Eames, Eames, Eames!” He cries out in a panic. He darts through the rubble, listening for signs of life. “No! No! Please, Eames!” Arthur sobs. He falls to his knees throwing bricks and shingles to the side, desperately digging for his friend. All he can picture is Eames crushed beneath, gasping his last breaths of life like Greg did when he fell. All he can see is his friends, Eames, Greg, covered in blood. There’s nothing he can do. There’s nothing he can do to help.

“Eames!” He screams, but no one answers.


	6. Chapter 6

Arthur is vaguely aware that’s he’s screaming. He can’t hear it; it’s like his senses are detached or directed through a tunnel stretching far in front of him. He can’t even see through the tears in his eyes. But his throat is raw, his lungs heaving, so he must be screaming.

All he can think is  _ it can’t be happening again. Not again! _

He shouldn’t have let this happen. Arthur doesn’t take chances like this because this is how people die. Arthur knows this and he shouldn’t have let Eames go in, no matter how much they needed the supplies. He should have tested the structure’s stability, should have noticed how unsafe it really was. Just like he shouldn’t have let Greg run ahead of him into that house before. Because Greg is fucking dead and now Eames is too. But some little part of Arthur’s mind can’t accept that fact, not yet, so he is screaming Eames’ name and clawing through the rubble. His fingers are a bloody mess, nails ripped back and the delicate skin of his fingertips cut from the sharp edges in the rubble. He doesn’t feel the pain. He can’t dig fast enough, can’t lift the heavy boards of the roof, trying to get to Eames.

“Eames!” He keeps crying over and over again before his words devolve into unintelligible wails. A hacking cough erupts from his body, the dust from the destruction catching in his lungs. Ignoring it, he continues his frantic digging through the debris. “Eames, fuck. God!”

Images of his dad flash in his head: the bone, the rotting flesh, the fever-sweat. Even if he could dig Eames out, he might not be able to save him. The antibiotics, the bandages, and antiseptic they were here for, wouldn’t guarantee that he could treat Eames’ injuries. Arthur can see his dad, how they tried to wash the wounds, how they tried to stave off the infection. He remembers it so vividly he can still smell it. Arthur nearly vomits, retching dryly to the side, but he continues to dig. He can’t seem to stop himself.

Then hands are pulling him back, gripping his shoulders and dragging him away. Vicious anger floods him and he struggles to get away, to get back to digging Eames out. Arthur fights; he screams to be let go. He struggles to free himself but the hold is too strong. Finally he realizes that whoever is pulling him back is saying his name. It takes him a long moment to recognize the timber of the voice, the deep, resonant accent that it so familiar to him now, as it repeats his name.

“Arthur, it’s ok. Arthur, Arthur calm down.” 

It’s still another second before recognition fully sets in. Arthur stares in disbelief, hands clutching at Eames' jacket like they don’t believe that the form beneath his hands exists. There’s blood smeared on Eames’ coat where he’s running his hands along the fabric, pulling Eames closer. When his mind finally accepts that it is Eames and that Eames is alive, Arthur is overwhelmed with relief, flooded with a mix of too many emotions and he grabs Eames by the back of the neck and pulls him into a desperate kiss. It’s too hard, just his lips pressed firmly against Eames’, and Arthur’s face is wet and messy from his tears. He isn’t paying attention to that; all Arthur knows in this moment is that Eames is alive. Eames is safe, here in Arthur’s arms and Arthur never wants to let go.

  


[](http://s698.photobucket.com/user/datingwally/media/art/kiss18final.jpg.html)

art by [datingwally](http://datingwally.livejournal.com)

  
Eames doesn’t try to pull away, but he’s stiff in Arthur’s embrace. Arthur continues to press their lips together until he needs to breathe. Finally relenting to the knowledge that Eames is fine, Arthur comes back, his mind clearing, and he suddenly realizes what he’s doing. Frantically he tries to push away, but Eames wraps his arms tighter around Arthur’s waist, trapping him against the heat of Eames’ body. Arthur sighs and buries his face into Eames’ shoulder, not fighting to get away because he doesn’t have the energy. 

“It’s okay,” Eames says as they stand, wrapped in each other’s arms. 

Arthur is trembling; all of his adrenaline and fear is coursing through his body in waves that make his nerves jump. They stay standing together for a while, until Arthur’s tremors disappear and his breathing evens out. Finally Eames pulls back and presses their foreheads together. He lets out a long exhale before tipping his head back and looking into Arthur’s eyes, searching for something. When Eames is apparently satisfied with what he sees, Eames gives a tight smile and rubs his hands down the length of Arthur’s arms until he’s holding Arthur’s wrists. Eames pulls Arthur’s hands into his own and lifts them to inspect the wounds from Arthur’s distraught digging. Eames’ face distorts in a pained grimace and he worries his bottom lip with his teeth. 

“How?” Arthur asks, unable to articulate his thoughts more. Eames looks up at him again at the question. “How did you get out?”

“Employee door in the back. Took some effort getting open, thought I wouldn’t make it out in time. I accidentally hit a support structure when I was moving shelving out of the way.” Eames continues to inspect Arthur’s hands. Arthur frowns. Eames almost died, and here he is, worrying over him because Arthur lost it. Arthur should be the one asking if Eames is okay, making sure Eames isn’t injured.

“I grabbed some antiseptic.” Eames says as his thumb is tracing a circle over Arthur’s palm soothingly.

Arthur laughs, a single unbelieving snort. “Of course you did,” he laughs. “Of course you managed to grab stuff before … ” Arthur chokes up before he can finish the sentence all of his relieved humor draining away. The vision of Eames buried underneath the rubble is still fresh in his mind.

Eames smiles grimly in response, pulling an assortment of pill bottles and packaging from the deep pockets of his cargo pants. He transfers everything to their packs before he drags Arthur to sit so he can dress his wounds. When Eames wipes away the blood and dirt with an alcohol pad, Arthur hisses at the stinging pain. His hands are a mess.  Eames bandages them when he’s done cleaning, frowning as he wraps the wounds up.

Watching Eames work, Arthur sees that he’s covered in dust, plaster and splinters of wood caught in his hair. Arthur wants to say something, to apologize for kissing him. He doesn’t even know where that came from. Thinking about it, he flushes with embarrassment, diverting his gaze when Eames looks up. But Eames doesn’t say anything, isn’t looking at Arthur like he’s grown a new head or anything, so Arthur doesn’t know if he should bring it up. Maybe Eames is just ignoring it and being polite. He could have freaked out, he could have stormed off, or punched Arthur, or made fun of him, but he didn’t. He hasn’t mentioned it and Arthur appreciates that; he appreciates that Eames is willing to ignore his temporary loss of sanity.

When Eames is done patching Arthur up, they decide to look for a place to crash for the night. Neither of them are in the mood to search through anymore buildings. They find a suitable spot, protected from the wind, and pull out a bedroll. They only packed one, so accustomed to sleeping near each other now, and Arthur suddenly feels very self-conscious. He wonders if Eames will feel awkward sleeping next to him because of this kiss so he shifts on his feet in hesitation as Eames lays down, pulling the blanket up. Eames lifts the corner though, looking at Arthur expectantly, and Arthur relaxes a little and climbs in. Eames wraps his arms around Arthur’s waist, pulling him into his chest. Arthur breathes in Eames’ scent, pressing his face into Eames’ shoulder. 

“I thought I lost … I thought that you were dead,” he whispers. For a moment he thinks Eames didn’t hear him, or that Eames is already asleep, but then Eames’ arms squeeze him a little tighter. 

In the morning they unwind from their embrace. Arthur had held on to Eames all night, clutching him as if he’d disappear if Arthur let go. He woke a few times, panicky, but calmed when he realized that Eames was still there, that he was safe. 

After a quick breakfast, they hit a few more houses and buildings, but Arthur feels extra paranoid, and they skip any structure that seems even remotely unstable. Eames doesn’t argue like he usually would. When they do go in, Arthur takes the lead. He feels the obligation to check things first, to see for himself that everything looks safe. They end up with considerably less supplies than desired when they head back home. 

They’d removed the traps before they left on their trip and will need to reset them, but by the time they get back they’re both exhausted. Dutifully, they put their new supplies away, then they start a fire and relax for the evening. Arthur is warming some food as Eames sits and stares into the flames. He’s been quiet the entire day, lost in his head it seems. The fleeting darkness that Arthur has seen sometimes in Eames’ eyes has returned. Arthur glances up at him every once in a while, worried but unwilling to ask. Eames hasn’t said anything, and Arthur has no idea what he’s thinking.  Eames might just be a little shocked from nearly dying. Or he could be thinking about the kiss. Arthur doesn’t want to know, he doesn’t want to say anything unless Eames does, so he lets Eames stare. He lets Eames work out whatever is on his mind.

They go to bed and Eames still pulls Arthur close, so at least he doesn’t seem uncomfortable towards Arthur, even if there’s a slight awkwardness to their sleeping arrangement. Arthur’s glad that Eames isn’t freaking out, but he can’t get rid of the anxious feeling in his stomach. And worse than that, he doesn’t even know what he himself thinks of the whole situation.  _ Why did I kiss him? _ He wonders, because as far as he can remember he’s never even thought about doing something like that before.

It’s a few days before Eames is even acting like himself. Even though Arthur thought it wouldn’t, life goes back to normal as they go back to their routine. They don’t speak about what happened. They don’t talk about Eames nearly dying, and they certainly don’t talk about Arthur’s reaction. Instead, they place the traps and check them daily. They monitor the water supply. They dress game, preserve meat, ration food, fix broken supplies and reinforce their structure. They draw, and talk, and joke. Everything is exactly the same as it is before. 

Everything is the same, except for the dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [night_reveals](http://night_reveals.livejournal.com) for the beta!


	7. Chapter 7

The first time Arthur wakes from the nightmares he doesn’t know where he is or what’s going on. He’s thrashing, tangled in the folds of his blankets and clawing at anything he can grab. He’s trying to get away from something and when he finally comes to, Eames is next to him with scratches on his arms, and a look of sheer terror on his face that makes Arthur’s already racing heart skip a beat. Eames never looks scared like this. Eames always seems like he can handle anything, like how calm he was when he had almost died, but Arthur looks at him and Eames seems at frozen in uncertainty, frightened, with brows knit tightly together and mouth slightly agape. Arthur reaches out to reassure Eames that he’s back, that he’s lucid, and that it’s over. He doesn’t know what’s happened, but he needs Eames to stop looking at him like that. So when Eames sighs in relief, he puts his hands on Arthur’s shoulders, and holds him there until Arthur's heart stops racing and his sweat is drying on his skin, and he finally calms. They stay sitting for a while until exhaustion settles in Arthur’s bones and he starts to tremble from adrenaline withdrawal and the cold. Eames pulls him back into the covers and they lay down to sleep again.

Arthur doesn't even remember what the dream was about.

The next time Arthur wakes from a dream he has come in his shorts. His heart is racing with a different kind of adrenaline, and his skin is slick with sweat, but not the cold, clammy kind that comes with fear. He hasn’t had a wet dream in years. Morning wood is a daily occurrence, he’s used to that, but wet dreams aren’t something he’s had to deal with since he was thirteen. Extracting himself delicately from the bed so as to not wake Eames, he goes to change into fresh boxers. He’d just washed the ones he was wearing not even two days ago, so he’s a little miffed at soiling them. Slipping on a new pair, he tries to remember the dream but it only comes back to him in bits and pieces. He remembers dreaming of Eames, how his lips felt pressed against Arthur’s own and how his hands had felt, calloused but soft as they rubbed down his arms. Arthur remembers how Eames had pulled him to his body while sleeping that night, holding Arthur and letting Arthur hold him back. This time, in the dream, Arthur was grinding back into Eames’ hips and pressing himself into Eames’ erection.

With the fresh pair of boxers on, he climbs back into the bed, warm from Eames’ body heat. He maintains a careful distance though, unable to shake off the ghostly imprint of the kiss from his lips. He can’t get back to sleep. After some tossing and turning, Arthur decides to get up and go for a walk to clear his head. He leaves a note in case he’s not back by the time Eames wakes.

Wandering the woods does help him clear his head. Arthur tries to figure out what his new dreams mean, why he seems to be bouncing from fear to desire, but can’t quite come up with any reason other than stress. Watching Eames almost die was traumatic, so it’s only normal for him to have odd reactions to the memories, right? Arthur decides that the dreams will stop when he gets over his emotional turmoil.

When he gets back to camp he feels much better. The woods are always so calming. They’re quiet and the trees box him in, blocking out distractions. There’s something comforting about being surrounded by something reliabile and lasting. He likes the the fact that trees stay in the same place for hundreds of years, growing, sustaiing life.

But the dreams don’t stop, or fade over the next few days. Arthur wakes in states of extreme arousal or fear. When it’s the nightmares, Eames sits with him, murmuring stories into his hair to calm him, to wipe the terror from his mind and put him back to sleep. When it’s the wet dreams, Arthur gets up to change or sit by himself. He needs to get a handle on this because he doesn’t have the energy to wash his clothes so often, and he’s tired of waking up in the middle of the night. He's tired of feeling so out of control.

A few days later, it begins to snow. Arthur hates the snow; it’s miserable and wet and makes everything unnavigable. They can’t check the traps or collect water. They can’t do much of anything until it melts away. Then they’ll have things to repair because wet snow is heavy and Arthur knows that the roof will be damaged when he inspects it later. Thankfully snow doesn’t last long in Vancouver. If it did, Arthur would go stir crazy, unable to stretch his legs on a walk, or without chores to complete. As it is, he and Eames struggle to occupy themselves by playing cards and drawing.

After four days of snow, Arthur can barely contain his pent-up energy. He fidgets all the time, standing and sitting and moving things around. He re-organizes three times before Eames yells at him to _sit down and read or something._ He tries, but can’t get into it; he needs a new book. His mind wanders over task lists and plans for their camp but soon he’s bored with that. Then he starts thinking about Eames. They’ve been living together for a while now and, now that he thinks about it, he doesn’t know all that much about Eames. He knows some things Eames likes, and the stories he likes to tell, but he doesn’t really know much about Eames’ history beyond him living on the streets after running away from home.

“Tell me something about yourself,” Arthur says as he tinkers with the hinge on a trap that keeps jamming. Eames looks up from carving something out of wood with an amused smile.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, whatever. Just, something new.”

“All right?” Eames voice is hesitant.

“What was it like to be a kid in England?” Arthur prods.

“Like being a kid anywhere else really: friends, bicycles, video games.”

“You’re being vague.” Arthur says with irritation. Apparently Eames’ past makes him uncomfortable, but Arthur isn’t asking for anything illicit or personal, just something, any little thing.

“And you’re being antsy. Can’t even handle a little snow?”

“I don’t like just sitting around.”

“I can see that.”

Arthur bristles with frustration. _This shouldn’t be a big deal,_ he thinks. “Fine. Fuck you,” he says dismissively. “Don’t tell me anything. I just thought we’d kill time. I don’t know that much about you, really.”

Eames expression turns dark, his lips pursed together and shoulders tensing up. His eyes crinkle in a slight squint of anger he seems to be trying to control and when he speaks, his words are clipped. “There’s not a lot to know.”

Arthur scowls and stands. “Whatever, forget it,” he huffs, then stalks off to find something else to do. It shouldn’t bother him so much that Eames doesn’t share. He knows, from what little they’ve talked about, that Eames’ life was hard. Remembering it might be painful. But Arthur’s not asking to know about all the horrible things from Eames’ past. He’s just trying to learn something about him, anything at all. It hurts a little that Eames won’t share when Arthur has opened up so much. Eames knows Arthur’s personal stuff. He know about Arthur’s his dad, his mom, and about even Greg. Superficial things are all Arthur knows, like what food Eames likes. They’ve only known each other a few months, but it still hurts that Eames is so closed off.

Arthur has another nightmare that night.

In the dream he’s standing on the edge of a tall building, looking out onto the city below. His feet are bare and he can feel the loose gravel layering the roof’s surface dig sharply into his skin. The sun is low in the sky, just above the horizon. It’s glaring brightly, directly in his sight-line, obscuring his view. There is a catwalk, a narrow bridge spanning from his building to the next that has no railing. The distance to the other side seems impossible to walk, the wind whipping through his hair strong enough to throw him off balance.

[](http://s698.photobucket.com/user/datingwally/media/art/light23.png.html)

art by [datingwally](http://datingwally.livejournal.com)

 

There’s something across the bridge that he needs to get to.

Dazedly, Arthur steps out onto the bridge, slowly sliding his foot forward along the smooth metal surface. It’s cool against his skin. He knows he has to cross, but he hesitates, wary of the plummeting distance below. He steps back and plants himself firmly on the rooftop again.

 _Arthur._ The name is like a whisper, carried on the wind. He doesn’t know if it comes from across the bridge or from directly behind him.

“Eames?” He calls out, wishing that the sun would set so he could see across the building tops. There is no answer to his call, just the wind licking through his curls, blowing them in his face.

Arthur steps out onto the bridge again, tentatively shuffling farther across the divide. Panic courses through his veins like ice-water. He could fall. _He could die._ But he needs to find Eames. Right? He needs to find Eames?

The catwalk seems so narrow as he inches farther out. Arthur makes it about ten feet out above the streets below, between the buildings, before the wind picks up. A gust threatens to toss him over the side and Arthur crouches down to steady himself. Reluctantly he looks back over his shoulder, trying to decide if he should turn back or continue on. As Arthur presses his palms flat on the surface of the bridge, keeping his center of gravity as low as possible, he feels it shudder.

Every muscle in Arthur’s body tenses as the vibrations intensify. He goes to turn back, but when he spins he sees small chunks of brick fall from the walls of the building. The entire structure flickers like a hologram, shuddering and breaking apart. A corner of the roof breaks away, cascading to the ground below.

For a split second Arthur thinks, _the whole thing is going to fall,_ and then his feet are carrying him across the bridge. His body reacts without thinking, sprinting as the bridge shatters behind him. Arthur can’t see the other side through the sun’s glare, hoping, trusting instinctively that the bridge stays straight as he tries to escape the collapse.

_Arthur … Arthur._

He hears his name called, an extended whisper in the winds, barely audible above the thunderous impact of falling debris. Arthur runs faster than he could imagine towards the call, but the bridge is crumbling too fast. The disintegration licks at his heels as he runs.

 _Arthur, Arthur, Arthur,_ the whisper calls, taunting him.

Finally he can see the other side, the silhouette of a solid building in front of him. Drawing on the last of his energy, he dashes forward, ready to dive onto the rooftop. But the fracture of the bridge is too fast and he feels the ground give out, feet scrambling in open air as the concrete falls away below him.

Arthur tumbles, unable to grab onto anything that will keep him from plummeting to his death. As he sails through the air, chunks of concrete and brick suspended around him, he hears the voice call to him and braces for impact.

_Arthur … Arthur._

“Arthur … Arthur. Arthur, wake up!”

Arthur gasps as he come awake, eyes flying open. Eames is at his side, gently shaking his shoulder. Taking a few gulping breaths, Arthur tries to regain his bearings. He’s not falling; he’s on solid ground and in his bed. It was just a dream. With wide eyes, he looks towards Eames.

“There you are,” Eames sighs with relief.

“F - fuck, what?” Arthur breathes, scrubbing a hand over his face as if to wipe away cobwebs, remnants of the dream.

“Another nightmare,” Eames answers. “Are you okay, Arthur?”

“Yeah, yeah I think so.”

“What’s going on in that brain of yours?” Eames asks jokingly, but the tremble in his voice betrays his concern.

Arthur doesn’t have an answer, memories of the dream slipping away, so he doesn’t say anything. Instead he collapses back onto the bed. He feels the phantom sensation of falling, like when he would try to go to sleep after a day at the amusement park riding roller coasters. Eames lies down at his back and runs a hand soothingly down his spine. Arthur presses back into Eames’ touch, relaxing bit by bit as Eames strokes him. After a while he’s able to drift into dreamless sleep.

***

“What’s up with you?” Eames asks in the morning as they prepare breakfast. Since the snow doesn’t seem to be disappearing, Arthur had trudged the short distance to their food storage and brought back a few days’ worth of food.

“I don’t know,” Arthur responds as he stirs peaches into the oatmeal they had found on their last trip into the city. “I think it’s stress.”

“Stress?”

“Yeah. I don’t think I deal well with losing people,” Arthur admits. Eames nods, not pointing out the fact that Arthur didn’t lose him, that he’s fine. Sometimes, Arthur notices, Eames just seems to understand.

They draw for most of the day. Arthur sketches a dream city with bridges spanning across alleyways and impossible staircases for fire escapes. Eames adds shadowy figures that perfectly inhabit the confusing spaces.

As evening approaches, the wind picks up, carrying with it an icy chill. By nightfall the temperature has dropped dramatically. Wordlessly, they both move the bed closer to the fire-pit and grab some extra fabric, before crawling under the blankets. Huddling together, they go to sleep.

***

Arthur is standing in his bedroom. Posters of The Clash and Foo Fighters hang on the wall next to prints of modern architecture. He blinks, gazing around the room. Drawings litter his desk and he can faintly smell his deodorant on the dirty clothes in the corner. His blue, plaid comforter is thrown carelessly across his bed and he goes to straighten it, to make his bed for the day. Arms wrap gingerly around him from behind when he drags his fingers along his blanket.

Leaning back into the warmth of the body behind him, Arthur can feel lips moves along his neck, pressing lightly against his hairline. “You’re not supposed to be in here,” Arthur says with a smile. He only receives an amused hum in response. “Eames,” Arthur laughs.

Arthur spins in Eames’ embrace and nuzzles his nose against Eames’ throat, smelling the musk of his skin. He licks along Eames’ pulse and Eames laughs as if he’s ticklish. He sucks harder, making Eames hum under his lips.

There’s snow falling steadily outside the window and the glass fogs over. The room suddenly feels unbearably hot, humid, and sticky. Arthur always remembers his room being so cold. Eames runs his hands along Arthur’s bare back. Arthur doesn’t even pause to wonder why he’s unclothed, why Eames is as well, not with Eames pressing against him, leaning down to lick into Arthur’s mouth. Suddenly his knees hit the edge of the bed. He didn’t realize they had been moving; maybe they hadn’t been, maybe they simply appeared next to the bed. Arthur lets Eames tip him back onto the mattress and he sinks into the soft blanket. Eames’ tongue is relentless, searching inside his mouth, playing over his teeth. Arthur moans when Eames presses his weight down on top of him.

Sucking kisses along Eames’ neck, he grinds his hips up into Eames’ body. Eames’ knee thrusts between his legs and makes him gasp and push for more contact. The friction is maddening, so deliciously good, but ultimately not enough. He wants more; he wants Eames’ skin on his skin, wants to feel the weight of Eames’ erection, the warmth of his cock pressed to his own. Eames’ hand smooths down his side, playing over Arthur’s ribs before slipping into the band of his underwear. He gasps when Eames’ fingertips brush over the sensitive dip of his pelvis before moving lower towards the junction of his legs. Eames hums against his mouth with pleasure when Arthur rolls his hips, arching off the bed.

Arthur feels like he can’t breathe. Everything is too hot, like he’s covered, smothered, and his lungs can’t process the heat of the air between them. Sweat breaks out across his skin and he moans into Eames’ mouth. Eames rocks his hips back and forth, grinding against Arthur’s sensitive prick. Eames takes his breath away with filthy kisses, and the heat rises, warmer and warmer until Arthur’s lungs burn with the need for oxygen. Arthur is frantic as he tries to break away, tries to escape, to get some air. Eames doesn’t let him. Eames is an immovable mass of muscle above him, soft, sticky skin and taut muscles underneath his fingers.

Eames is moving against him relentlessly, demanding, taking Arthur’s pleasure with every twitch of his hips, every smooth swipe of tongue in his mouth, every caress of large hands down his skin. Arthur feels like he’s going to die, like at any moment he’ll expire in a limbo, trapped between ecstasy and hysteria. He wants nothing more than to succumb to it, to give in to it, to give into Eames. He could die in this embrace, pinned beneath the smooth undulation of Eames’ hips. He could let Eames take his very last breath with a kiss, could fade into blackness, comforted by the weight on top of him.

At the last moment, before Arthur blacks out, Eames pulls away and cold air rushes in like an icy avalanche, cascading down the wet ridges of his throat to settle in the smallest crevices of his lungs. He chokes on on it, feeling the air crystallize into fragmented needles, swelling and solidifying inside his chest. It’s too much and he tries to scream, tries to cough out the frozen mass, but can’t. His hips thrust forward, searching for the warmth of Eames’ body again.

Arthur comes awake, eyes fluttering open and a moan on his breath. His hips roll forward and he can feel the press of his erection against the heat of Eames’ body next to him. The space underneath the blankets is searing hot. His head is uncovered, not like when he want to sleep, and the cool breeze whips around his face. Arthur coughs with the pain of the cold air in his lungs. He feels wet, exhausted, tense with the need to come. Realizing that he’s still grinding against Eames, unable to help the twitch of his hips, he forces himself to stop. Arthur ducks his head back under the blankets, scooting back down to escape the cold. His eyes begin to focus in the darkness underneath the cloth, his breathing heavy enough that he can feel it bounce back to him off of Eames’ face. When he looks to see if Eames is awake, his body goes stock still. Eames is panting lightly, lips parted beautifully like an invitation. Arthur wants to dive forward and press his lips to them, but he can’t. He can’t make himself move, because Eames’ eyes are open. Eames is awake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to [night_reveals](http://night_reveals.livejournal.com), [metacheese](http://metacheese.livejournal.com) & [herinfiniteeyes](http://herinfiniteeyes.livejournal.com) for beta-ing!


	8. Chapter 8

Arthur pulls away, tossing off the blankets and stumbling out of bed. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he curses over and over again. The wind is brisk, bitter cold against his exposed skin. He grabs for his coat and pants and slings them on as quickly as possible.

“Arthur. Arthur, wait.” Eames throws the blanket off himself as well, sitting up. But Arthur is already pulling on his boots, not bothering to tie them before he jogs away. He’s nearly sick with embarrassment, stomach churning. He can feel the bile rise in his throat as he trips through the snow, and chokes it down. Arthur is already a hundred feet away before he thinks about what a terrible idea it is to wander off in the dark without a weapon. His pants are already soaked through from the snow. That and he doesn’t have a shirt on beneath his coat. But he can’t go back, not with Eames there, not after getting caught like that.

 _What the fuck is wrong with me?_ Arthur thinks. He doesn’t want to go back, but he knows he has to. He’ll freeze out here, or worse. But he can’t quite find it in himself to face Eames yet.

He has been afraid that this is what would happen, that Eames would find out about his dreams. Eames has been great about the nightmares but this is different. Arthur doesn’t understand why this is happening. He recognizes that he cares for Eames, a lot. The pharmacy incident had left no doubt of that.

Arthur also recognizes that Eames is beautiful in a way that he really hasn’t considered before. Not anything real, anything more than a crush on someone unobtainable. Eames has a strength about him that Arthur envies. His eyes are kind and intelligent. The way Eames looks at him with those gray-blue irises that expand and contract as he thinks makes Arthur feel like Eames really sees him, that he knows more than he should. Arthur feels like he’s incapable of hiding from Eames.

He tries though, to hide it, because Eames is his friend and he doesn’t want to ruin that. He doesn’t know if Eames would ever reciprocate them. Just because Arthur’s feelings are changing towards Eames, it doesn’t mean that Eames will be okay with that; Eames might hate him for it. He might leave. Arthur doesn’t know what he would do if that were to happen.

Arthur’s shoulders slump in defeat. He knows what he has to do. He has to bottle away his emotions. He loves Eames. He wants Eames, but keeping Eames means Arthur has to control himself. He doesn’t want to push Eames away because he can't tame his libido. With a shiver, Arthur turns and heads back to camp.

When he gets back, Eames is pacing. His face is a tense mask of anger and worry. Arthur can see Eames visibly relax when he catches sight of Arthur approaching. Even at this distance, Arthur can practically hear Eames’ sigh of relief.

“Fuck, Arthur. You can’t do that. You can’t just take off in the dark. You didn’t even take a gun!”

“I know,” Arthur murmurs, chagrined. “I’m sorry. I just … I’m sorry. Can we pretend this all never happened? I didn’t mean to … to … it was just a dream. I didn’t know what I was doing.”

An indecipherable emotion washes over Eames’ face before he smiles nervously. “Yeah,” Eames says. “I can forget about it. Just don’t take off like that again.”

Arthur nods and swallows thickly. He can control himself. He will.

They don’t talk about it again, but tension hangs in the air for days. Eames seems uncomfortable, almost melancholy as they carefully avoid each other. Arthur makes sure he’s aware of every signal he gives Eames. He makes sure to only touch Eames in platonic ways. It’s hard though. He realizes now just how tactile their relationship has been now that he’s actively trying to alter his behavior. Arthur keeps a careful distance between them at night, not wanting to risk a repeat of the wet dream episode. It feels so cold not being able to press himself up against Eames.

He hates it.

Arthur hates that he wakes up shivering in the morning. He hates the aborted movements he has to make when he’s about to sling his arm around Eames’ shoulders as they laugh. He hates not being able to touch Eames without it possibly meaning more. Eames seems equally put off by it all, but he doesn’t say anything about Arthur’s awkwardness towards him.

After some time things go back to being mostly normal. Arthur doesn’t feel instantaneous guilt whenever he leans into Eames as they joke. He can squeeze Eames’ shoulders in a tight hug like they used to. Arthur still dreams though, so he keeps a distance between them at night. It kills him a little, being so close and unable to touch.

Arthur’s desire increases as winter comes to an end. He realizes just how happy Eames makes him. He so badly wants everything they had before. He wishes he could have the same easy relationship they used to have. He wants Eames’ arms wrapped around him at night. He wants it so much that he tells himself he doesn’t notice the way he gradually scoots closer to Eames as they sleep. Arthur inches his way into Eames’ space looking for any sign that Eames is becoming uncomfortable. He doesn’t see one, but he can’t be sure he’s not lying to himself.

Finally, one night, Arthur is lying awake, thoughts drifting to Eames like they always seem to do. He’s suddenly stricken with the uncontrollable urge to press himself against Eames as he sleeps. He wants to feel Eames’ warmth directly against his skin. Before he notices it, he’s reaching out slowly to touch Eames’ hair. Arthur brushes it lightly from Eames’ forehead, biting his lip nervously at the thought of getting caught again.

When Eames doesn’t wake, Arthur gets bolder. He scoots closer and closer as he lightly pets Eames’ hair. He freezes when Eames stirs, but Eames only mumbles something contentedly and presses his head to Arthur’s hand. Arthur moves closer and wraps his arm lightly over Eames’ waist. Eames wakes for a moment and Arthur goes stock still, waiting to see what he does. This is the breaking point. Arthur knows he’s screwed because this is what he wants and all Eames has to do is push him away, to reject him.

Eames is half awake but smiles lightly and reaches to pull Arthur closer. Eames buries his face in Arthur’s neck and sighs sleepily. Arthur relaxes, a wave of relief washing over him, and Arthur smiles into Eames’ hair. He tightens his grip, feeling happy, feeling at home again, and he drifts into sleep.

In the morning they wake still wrapped in each other’s arms. It feels perfect and Arthur never wants to let go. Eames smiles at him softly as they lie together, not saying anything. They both don’t seem to want to get up. Eventually their stomachs force them to get out of bed. The day goes better than Arthur could have hoped. They’re finally getting back to where they were before: companionable, light touches, and easy smiles.

They don’t talk about what happened, but they do go back to cuddling every night. Even if it’s nothing more, Arthur is happy just to have someone, to have a friend. He tells himself that he can live like this. He tells himself that what he and Eames have now is better than nothing at all. Arthur will get over wanting more with time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [herinfiniteeyes](http://herinfiniteeyes.livejournal.com) for the beta!


	9. Chapter 9

Spring creeps over Vancouver like ivy, crawling out as they days become longer. The snow melts quickly, leaving mud and puddles in its wake. The hike to their traps is no less cumbersome in the mud than in the snow, but the animals have emerged from their winter hideaways and so daily checks are necessary. 

Arthur has never been fond of mud, the way it clings to his shoes and the bottoms of his pants like viscous lemmings bent on trapping his feet to the ground. He feels soiled and disheveled. The moisture penetrates everything, and they have to be careful to air out their shoes so as to not develop trench foot. He’s thankful that he has several pairs to alternate between but makes a note to look for more shoes the next time they scavenge.

The last few weeks with Eames have been uneventful, for which Arthur is actually thankful. Most of the awkwardness between them has slowly disappeared. His nightmares seem to have disappeared, since he’s only had one in the last two weeks or so. He still dreams of Eames but has been able to somehow convince his sleeping body to face his back to Eames’ chest. He has not woken up grinding on his friend. 

Controlling his thoughts in the daytime is more difficult. It takes nearly all of his energy to direct his thoughts away from focusing on the way Eames’ lips look, plush and inviting, imagining them pressed against the hollow of his own neck. He fights every urge to let his fingers linger over the growing expanse of Eames’ exposed skin as the weather warms. He is hyper aware of Eames’ proximity at all times, wishing for Eames to get closer, to brush against him in an electrifying contact of their bodies. Arthur dreads it as well, not trusting himself to control his own reactions. He’s caught in a limbo of warring emotions inside, while outwardly pretending that everything is okay.

Arthur slips up often. During a hike, he holds on a little to long when he nearly trips, and Eames catches his hand to steady him. He finds himself staring at Eames, simply watching the way he moves, fluidly but with a sense of determination. Arthur notes the way Eames’ shoulders hunch forward and his neck stretches long when he’s thinking, chewing on a nail or rolling a leaf-stem between his lips. Arthur notices that Eames’ shoulders pull back when he’s made a joke. Arthur finds himself smiling at the smallest things, unable to help the way his lips automatically turn up when Eames grins at him or does something nice. He stumbles over his words when he finds himself revealing too much. He tries to change the subject, and Eames lets him though he often gives Arthur a confused, knowing look.

Arthur can’t help himself sometimes, he reaches out to place a palm on Eames’ lower back as he moves behind him to reach for something. Eames flinches away a little but doesn’t say anything. Eames will give Arthur a pained look whenever he catches Arthur staring. He lets Arthur get away with it, excuse it as zoning out.

The weather has been getting nicer, so it’s easier for Arthur to slip away at night and wander the woods. Sometimes it’s just to calm himself, to clear his head in the dark, silent, woods. Sometimes he jerks off with his palm pressed against the rough bark of a tree and Eames’ name caught on his tongue as a whisper. 

Whenever he gets back, he slips off his shoes, stows his knife and curls up next to Eames, taking in Eames’ heady scent, willing himself to sleep without dreams. Every morning Arthur starts the whole process again, suppressing his feelings, picking his words carefully, controlling his wandering hands. 

One day, Eames is telling Arthur a funny story, and when Arthur laughs and tips his head to Eames’ shoulder, he runs his hand down Eames arm without thinking. He feels Eames tense beside him. Snatching his hand away, Arthur rights himself, spine rigid and ears burning hot with embarrassment. Eames doesn’t let it go this time, like he has every other time Arthur has slipped up.

“You gotta stop touching me like that, mate,” Eames says, voice strained in an attempt to be delicate. 

Arthur knows Eames must be hiding his disgust. 

“Sorry,” Arthur blurts as he stands quickly. He rubs his hands down his pants and tries to come up with more to say but finds he has nothing. He’s horrified by his actions.“Sorry,” he huffs out again, and before he says something stupid, he walks away.

“Hey! Hey, Arthur, sorry, mate. I didn’t mean it like that!” Eames calls after him, but Arthur ignores him. It doesn’t matter what Eames says, Eames has been holding his tongue, Arthur knows, and he shouldn’t have to do that. Arthur should be able to control himself. He grabs a gun on his way out of camp and heads into the woods. Hunting, or at least hiking, will help to calm him down.

Arthur’s shoes slip through the moss and mud as he stalks through the woods. He doesn’t see any animals, but he guesses that’s to be expected since he’s not being particularly stealthy. He’s a little too worked up to care. After about an hour of hiking, he’s finally ready to take responsibility for his actions. Arthur has been trying hard to keep his feelings hidden, he could have tried harder. He doesn’t want to push Eames away. Without Eames, Arthur doesn’t know what his life would be like; he can’t picture being alone anymore. So he makes a decision and locks away everything inside of himself. He promises himself that he won’t touch Eames again. If he’s having a hard time, he’ll walk away, he’ll get his head on straight. Eames deserves that much.

It’s nearly nightfall by the time Arthur returns to camp. Eames is stirring food over the fire, and he looks tense, worried even. When he hears Arthur approach he looks up.

“Jesus, Arthur, I’m sorry I …” 

Arthur cuts him off. “No, it’s my fault. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. Can we just forget about it?”

Eames looks at him with a scrutinizing gaze. He looks like he wants to say no, that he wants to talk about it, which Arthur really does not want to do. After a moment, Eames finally acquiesces with a nod. Dinner is mostly silent, and that night, Arthur goes back to keeping his distance.

Arthur’s struggle to not touch and not stare is agonizingly difficult. He has to catch himself all the time. It’s worse than before. It’s worse because last time Eames hadn't said anything, and a little part of Arthur had held some hope that he could have more, even though deep down he knew he couldn’t. This time Eames had actually asked him to stop. 

Their every interaction becomes strained. Eames withdraws, becomes more irritable, almost distraught at times. It’s as if he can tell that Arthur still wants to touch him. For the first time in a long time, Arthur wishes that there were more people, so that Eames could go find friends that didn’t make him uncomfortable. So that Eames could be happy somewhere else instead of stuck here with him. Every time Arthur stops himself from touching Eames, Eames’ face furrows in frustration, so Arthur tries harder. He keeps his distance completely, keeping a few feet between them whenever he can. 

Arthur grows frustrated. He snaps angrily at everything. Trying to curb is behavior takes so much effort. They fight over everything. Stories that used to entertain him infuriate him. They’re full of lies, and it reminds him once again that Eames never wanted to be close enough to share, to be honest and open. Eames snaps back, trying to make fun at first, and lighten the mood, but with venom as time goes on. Arthur condescends, and Eames dishes sarcasm right back.

Finally, after a screaming match over something insignificant, Eames snaps. “Fuck it,” he says. “I’m leaving. You’re being a prat lately, and I can’t take anymore.”

Arthur snaps his jaw shut, and his stomach seizes up like he’s been kicked. He doesn’t know why he didn’t expect this. It is what he’s been trying to do isn’t it? Drive Eames away? 

Eames is pacing like a caged animal, the muscle in his jaw jumping beneath his skin. Arthur doesn’t know what to say, because as much as he thought he wanted this, Eames saying it hurts like knife being driven through his heart.

Arthur watches dumbly as Eames hastily shoves supplies into a bag, wanting to stop him. Clenching his fists into tight balls, he grits his teeth and stands silently. _This is for the best_ , he keeps telling himself. But the mantra doesn’t stop his racing heart and the bitter taste of regret in his mouth.

Arthur half hopes that Eames’ anger will burn off by the time he’s done packing. That Eames’ resolve will dissipate and he will sit down with a sigh, and they’ll talk it out. But Eames grabs his rifle, hauls his pack onto his shoulder and walks out of camp without so much as a goodbye. Arthur is left staring after him helplessly.

It’s not even evening before Arthur feels the twinge of loneliness. The air is heavy and cool as it settles over camp. Selfishly, Arthur thinks that the bed will be cold tonight. He would be grateful that the weather is warming if he could be grateful for anything right now. He wonders where Eames will go. Probably back to wherever he was holed up before. Eames had said that he didn’t want Arthur to know where his old place was, in case anything like this ever happened. Arthur hates that he proved Eames right.

It takes two weeks for Arthur to admit that pushing Eames away was a mistake. He knew it was terrible the very instant Eames decided to leave, but he had thought he could make himself get over it. He’s finding that he can’t. The first two nights are okay. Arthur is able to tell himself that it’s a good thing. He tries convincing himself that it feels like a relief to have a night off from Eames. But every night it gets harder. Every night he goes to bed alone. Every night he wishes Eames were there. 

The days aren’t any better. Arthur sighs out a bored melody that he hasn’t heard in ages, just to break the silence. Busying himself doesn’t take his mind off of everything he should have done differently. The thing that breaks him is the sketch he finds in the book Eames had been reading. Arthur picks it up on a whim, trying to keep his mind occupied, choosing this book because it had been Eames', at least temporarily. And then, in the half page at the end of chapter four, he finds a sketch of himself. It’s gestural, loose lines of varying weight, but at the same time it’s intimately detailed. The profile is soft grey, punctuated with deep dark lines indicating the angle of his jaw. It’s beautiful. 

Arthur wishes he had known Eames was sketching him. He wishes he had known that Eames had been staring at him like this, obviously studying him. He wonders what he gave away in those moments where he was oblivious to Eames’ observation. 

What if what Eames saw was what pushed him away? Because the drawing is so open. Arthur can see the happiness plain as day on his own face. It’s clear that care went into this drawing because it’s nearly finished. Eames spent time perfecting this. Eames wouldn’t spend so much time studying something he hates would he? 

A burst of hope floods his system like warm syrup. He knows what he has to do. He has to find Eames. Suddenly Arthur is stricken with the a strong sense of déjà vu. He shakes his head to clear the stray thought away. Tomorrow he’ll go into the city. He doesn’t care if it takes weeks to do it. He will find Eames.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [sneaqui](http://sneaqui.livejournal.com) for the beta on this chapter.


	10. Chapter 10

Three days in the city and Arthur hasn’t seen a trace of Eames. He knew it would be difficult, if not impossible, but he had to hope that he would find some sign of Eames somewhere. He tried to remember any of the small things Eames had been honest about, if he had been honest about anything

The walk past the burned-out oil distillery brings back memories of their first days together. He thought he had hated Eames then, that Eames was a nuisance. He remembers how beautiful Eames had looked, lit by the bright, burning orange glow, the angles of his face accented with dancing shadows. Had Arthur known that at the time and chose not to think about it? Did he think Eames was beautiful that day?

Arthur wanders Dunbar, checking houses idly. He thinks Eames mentioned that his _boss_ lived in this area, and the neighborhood is nice. Homes like this always had food, or were built well enough to still be intact. There were signs of raiding, which isn’t surprising, but Arthur thinks it would be a good place to bunker down in the burned-out city.

The neighborhood will take days to search. He doesn’t know if Eames would really go to his boss’ old house. He has to start somewhere, though. He’s making his way through Memorial Park, which is deserted and blanketed in brown grass, probably from not being watered, when the hairs on his neck stand on end. He subtley checks over his shouler, eyes bushes along the park's edge.

He angles to the right and makes his way to an abandoned preschool. It’s eerie without kids playing and adults hovering nearby to wrangle them. It should give him cover, though. He can use it as an obstacle, put it between him and whoever is watching him. As he walks, he casually shifts his rifle into a better firing position, trying not to alert his tail that he's onto them.

He’s made it all the way to the trees near the road, close to the school, when a kid steps out from behind the building, pointing a shotgun directly at his chest. Arthur stops in his tracks, realizing he’s raised his own gun instinctively. The kid is skinny, smaller than Arthur, but not by much. Arthur thinks he could take him in a fight, not that he’d get the chance with guns already involved. They stare each other down.

“The pack,” the kids says, crystal eyes shimmering in the soft, overcast light. He looks like he’s about to cry, but his face is stony, gaunt and too skinny. His fingers tremble as he holds the shotgun, and Arthur breifly hopes that he doens't accidentally pull the trigger.

Arthur nods his head no. The kid doesn’t look like he has it in him to shoot and Arthur is not about to give up any supplies if he doesn’t have to. It's a gamble. The kid couldn't have survived this long without having some nerve, but killing rats, racoon, or former pets is not the same as killing a person. The kid tenses, eyebrows knitting together in frustration.

“I don’t want to hurt you, but I will.” The kid's' Adam's apple bounces in his throat on a nervous swallow.

Arthur stares, daring the kid to shoot. He’s no longer certain the kid is bluffing, but he has just as much a chance at taking the boy out if it comes to it. He’s focused, trying to urge the boy to back down. They can end this as a draw, both go their own ways. Arthur doesn’t want to kill anyone either.

Arthur is so focused on the kid he doesn’t sense it coming. The blow sends pain shooting through his shoulder blades and he stumbles forward. He doesn't recover quickly enough and his legs are swept out from under him and he finds himself face down on the dead grass, dirt in his mouth.

He reaches for his dropped gun but before he can grab it someone kicks him in the ribs, hard. It’s enough to make Arthur yelp in pain and double in on himself. His lungs contract fitfully and he can’t breath. He tries again to get his gun, but the boot strikes him a second time.

Arthur’s vision goes black and starry. His eyes are bleary with tears when the fog of pain fades, and what he sees when his vision clears doesn’t makes sense. The attack has stopped and there is a flurry of movement around him. Someone is screaming, but he can't make sense of what they are saying.

“Fuck off,” someone growls, and it sounds distinctly like Eames.

Arthur looks up and sees that the boy with the gun is still there, but has pointed it towards the commotion. There is a person sprawled on the ground and Eames is standing over it with his rifle aimed at their head. Time seems to stand still as Arthur stares and struggles to breathe.

Whimpering catches his attention and he looks to the side to see a young girl clutching herself, tears streaked down her pale face. The situation doesn't feel unreal, feels like a bad dream. Maybe Arthur is dreaming, because Eames is there. But the pain reminds him that this is reality. Fighting the urge to cough he tries to assess the situation. When he looks up his stomach drops.

He can see _it_ , the look in Eames’ eyes. The darkness that Arthur has seen surface before is full blown and murderous. A chill runs down his spine, which sends a sharp shock of pain shooting through his lungs.

Eames will kill this kid.

“Eames,” Arthur gasps out. “Eames, don’t!”

Arthur’s seen Eames kill now: rabbits, opossum, deer. This is different. Eames hand is steady, not tremble of trepidation as he aims his gun.

The girl is sobbing now, genuine fear in her eyes. They’re only kids too; she’s younger than the other two. “Dom,” she says. “Dom, let’s go. Dom, c’mon!”

“Shut up, Ari,” the blond boy on the ground growls.

Eames hasn’t lowered his gun, but the intensity of his stare is cracking as time drags on. He glances worriedly back towards where Arthur is huddled on the ground. Arthur catches his eyes. He shakes his head sharply, willing Eames to back off.

The adrenaline of the fight is wearing off, the pain increasing. Arthur might have a broken rib; it’s at least bruised. The endorphins pumping through his body from the injury won’t last long. They need to get back to camp before he becomes completely immobile.

“Eames, please,” Arthur nearly begs.

Eames’ gaze softens and his brows furrow, worried but less angry. He lowers his rifle slightly and steps back, closer to Arthur. The move puts him farther away from Arthur's backpack. It looks like it physically pains Eames to back away, to give any room for the others to get the upper hand.

The other boy, the brunette with the shotgun, is shaking and still pointing the muzzle directly at Eames. He seems unwilling to lower it, eyes darting between the blond and Eames in fear. The girl tries to calm him down.

“Robbie. Robbie, don’t. Let’s go.”

She places her hand on the muzzle of the gun, lowering it for him. The kid is still shaking, obviously unsure of what to do. Eames eyes the blond, seeming to decide whether to risk one last fight for the pack or to come to Arthur’s aid.

After a long, tense moment he backs farther away from the trio. _Dom_ scrambles to his feet, dragging Arthur’s pack with him. He backs tentatively away, still afraid that Eames will shoot him, to join the other two. The girl grabs _Robbie’s_ wrists, pulling him away. They all back up until they are a reasonably safe distance away. Then they sprint off.

Arthur has lost the food he gathered and a good carrying bag, but at least he’s alive. At least Eames is alive—and here. That thought is nearly overwhelming. He wanted to find Eames, had tried so hard, and as soon as he needed him, Eames had appeared. It was as if Eames had been watching him the entire time.

Eames doesn’t relax until the trio is out of sight. When he finally lowers his gun, he turns to Arthur, chewing on his bottom lip nervously. There are bags under Eames’ eyes, like he hasn’t been sleeping well, and the distressed expression mars the features of his face.

“You alright?” Eames asks as he crouches down. The hand he places on Arthur’s shoulder is warm. Arthur nods, but his short, gasping breaths betray his injuries. Eames’ frown deepens. “Come one, lets get you up,” he says as he slides an arm under Arthur’s and gently lifts him to his feet.

They’ve walked for blocks silently before Arthur finally speaks. “Where are we going?” he asks.

“Back to camp,” Eames replies.

“I came to find you,” Arthur admits.

Eames expression is guarded as Arthur looks at him, his arm wrapped tightly around Eames’ neck. The distortion of his view from being so close together makes Eames' expression darker somehow and Arthur buries his face into Eames' shoulder to block it out. He tries not to focus on the pain.

More time passes in silence, save for Arthur’s labored breathing. It takes twice the usual amount of time to make it to the bridge. The sun is already setting by the time they’ve crossed.

“We have to stop.” Arthur pleads, grimacing in pain. The ache has grown steadily as they made their way through the city.

“Can’t do that,” Eames says. “We won’t make it back before dark and we can’t camp here. I don’t want to be out longer than we have to, not with you injured.”

Arthur nods in understanding. It’s dangerous for them here. But his lungs burn; it takes so much effort to walk. “Thank you,” he whispers.

“Mmmm?” Eames hums.

“For saving my life. Where did you come from anyway?”

Eames looks away sheepishly. He works his bottom lip with his teeth for a moment before turning back. “I was tailing you.”

Arthur nods. For some reason that makes perfect sense. Eames had first found Arthur by doing the same thing. It also pisses him off that Arthur couldn't sense him, yet again. Eames shifts his weight to hitch Arthur higher and the movement makes him flinch.

“Sorry,” Eames says.

Hours later, they finally make to their camp. Eames deposits Arthur on the bed as gently as possible then goes to grab some water. Arthur takes the offered cup thankfully when Eames holds it out. Arthur is exhausted, but he’s been dying to talk to Eames for so long. He doesn’t know where to start.

He’s in too much discomfort to really focus on a conversation anyway. Eames finishes the fire and comes to sit next to him in the bed, crossing his legs and gently moving Arthur’s head onto his lap. Puzzled, Arthur looks where Eames face is tipped down over him.

“How are you feeling?” Eames asks as he threads his fingers through Arthur’s hair lightly. It’s so gentle, so unlike any way Eames has touched him before. Arthur closes his eyes as Eames pets his hair.

“Hurts,” Arthur whispers.

“Can you breathe okay? It’s not sharp inside, is it? Doesn’t feel like it’s stabbing?” Eames face distorts in worry again. It looks extremely odd from Arthur’s upside-down position.

Arthur shakes his head no. It extremely painful but the sensation is stretched across his ribs, not a dagger of pain. Eames nods. “Good. He got you pretty good, hopefully your ribs are just bruised. They could be broken, but if there’s no sharp pain then hopefully nothing is going into your lungs.”

“You sound like you know from experience.”

Eames expression darkens again and he looks away. “I do,” he says with the kind of finality that leaves no room for questions. Arthur doesn’t push. Eames continues to run his fingers through Arthur’s hair as Arthur drifts into fitful sleep, exhausted from the journey.

Arthur is unable to get comfortable in any position. He sleeps a little, but ends up floating in and out of a semi-lucid state. Eames is there every time he wakes, getting him water, and playing with his hair until he falls back asleep. Finally, towards morning, he’s able to sleep steadily.

Waking up to the smell of cooking food is glorious. Arthur attempts to stretch, forgetting his injury for a moment. He gasps when his ribs flare with pain.

“Hey, hey, hey. Don’t move, okay? I’ll help you up.” Eames is at his side before he knows it, with his palms underneath Arthur’s shoulders to help lift him. Arthur grits his teeth and blinks his watery eyes. Eames runs a hand down his back, avoiding the side where his was kicked. If Arthur could press into the touch he would. It feels perfect.

Eames moves away too quickly, to stir the cooking food before it burns. “You’re going to be useless for at least a week or two. Breathing is going to be hard for a few days, and movement, and sleeping. But you’ll loosen up soon. You just won’t be able to do any hard labor. No lifting.”

Arthur groans. He hates being useless. He hates staying still.

Eames grins at him, a spoon help up in his hand as he crouches by the fire. “Try not to be a baby about it, yeah? I know how you get when you're cooped up, but there’s nothing to be done about it, except let yourself recover.” He points the spoon accusingly towards Arthur before using it to stir the food again.

“Who died and made you doctor?” Arthur jokes.

“You, nearly,"Eames quips. "Anyway, I wish we had ice, but nothing can be done about that. You have to take deep breaths every once in a while, to get air into your lungs, stretch them.”

Arthur scowls at the idea. The short breaths he is taking now hurt enough. He can’t imagine trying to expand his lungs beyond that. He tries a bigger breath, just to test it out, and grimaces from the tight pull of sore muscle over his bruised bones.

“I know it sounds unappealing, but you’ll catch pneumonia otherwise, and we don’t have the meds for that.”

Arthur nods his understanding. Eames’ extensive knowledge about the nature of ribcage injuries has him curious. He wants to ask about it, but remembers the look Eames had last night. For the time being he’s just happy Eames is using the word _we,_ like he still lives _here_. It makes Arthur hope that Eames will stay.

Eames walks over with the finished breakfast and hands Arthur a bowl. Swallowing isn’t he easiest task either. Neither is changing, or walking too far, or pissing, or even sitting for that matter. Everything hurts.

Eames helps as much as he can, but even he can’t help keep Arthur from accidentally bumping into things, or stretching too far, or laughing. In fact, Eames is the cause of most of the laughing. At least he has the good sense to feel bad about it for a moment when Arthur whines.

They fall into a new routine of Eames taking care of Arthur. He goes off to check the traps, but only every other day. He cooks, gathers water, and cleans. He helps Arthur out of bed, helps him dress, and helps him walk to relieve himself. Arthur’s not actually an invalid though, so he doesn’t let Eames help him piss or anything, though Eames probably would if he had to. It makes Arthur feel a strange mix of joy and annoyance. He hates being helpless, but he kind of likes the attention.

It’s easy between them when they aren’t fighting, and Arthur doesn’t know why he tried so hard to push Eames away. Eames wouldn’t do any of this if he didn’t care. Arthur regrets making Eames upset. He didn’t deserve that, not even for keeping his past hidden.

But Eames’ past still bothers Arthur a lot. Everything he learns about Eames makes him want to know more. He’s seen the violence held inside of him. Eames has obviously been in some rough situations. Arthur just wants to understand.

They’re sitting together by the fire one night when Arthur finally decides to be straightforward with Eames. “Tell me something true,’ Arthur says. Eames is starting a fire and when he looks up, his eyes shine within the dark shadows under his brow. Arthur can see the trepidation behind them, the start of a lie forming. “Something important,” Arthur clarifies. “I don’t really know anything about you.”

Eames hesitates. Maybe Arthur is is asking too much too soon. But Eames scrapes his thumbnail along his lip nervously and starts to speak.

“I wasn’t exactly a good person, Arthur.”

“I know. You said you stole things, stuff like that. I got that you were kind of a bad boy.”

“No, that’s not what I’m getting at,” Eames pauses, gathering his words. “I ran with a bad crowd. I … did things.”

“Like what?”

“You know how I told you I was out of town on the day of the blast?”

Arthur nods. Eames continues, “I was delivering drugs to a client for my boss.”

“So you were an actual criminal?”

Eames nods solemnly. Arthur mulls that over in his head, trying to process the information. Then he remembers the fight, remembers the way Eames looked at that blond kid on the ground.

“You would have killed that kid, wouldn’t you?” he asks and searches Eames eyes, pleading for honesty.

Eames hold his gaze for a moment before dropping his eyes to the ground and nodding. “They hurt you,” he whispers. His foot taps a nervous rhythm in the dirt and he shuffles something through his fingers. Arthur can’t figure out what it is. Eames looks back up with the most open expression Arthur has ever seen from him. He looks so worried and Arthur realizes that he’s waiting for something. Then it hits him: Eames is waiting for Arthur to reject him.

“Hey, hey,” he says as he grabs Eames’ hand in his own, stilling the movement. Eames clutches at whatever he was playing with. “Thank you.” Eames doesn’t relax, so Arthur tries again. “Eames, thank you. You protected me.”

“I never wanted you to know me like that, you know.”

“Like what?”

Eames doesn’t answer directly but continues on, “I had a fresh start when I met you. You didn’t know anything about me, and I didn’t have to be judged by what I used to do.”

Arthur wants to say that he wouldn't have judged Eames, but he doesn’t. He didn’t even want to deal with Eames at first, he doesn’t know how he would have reacted early on.

“I don’t care what you did, Eames. It can’t be bad enough to make me not care about you, to not be your friend.”

Eames looks at him seriously again, weighing Arthur’s words. Arthur gives him the most sincere look he can manage. Eames bursts into laughter.

“That is not a good look for you, mate.”

Arthur smiles automatically, reacting to the grin plastered on Eames’ face. “What? I’m trying to be serious here!”

“You look constipated.”

“I’d punch you in the arm if it wouldn’t hurt me more at this point.”

“I am truly terrified of your recovery if you’re going to threaten me with physical violence every time I make fun of you.”

A bitter thought flits through Arthur’s head. _That’s the only way I will get to touch you once I’m not injured anymore._ Eames is being affectionate while Arthur is helpless, but he knows that won’t last. Eames picks up on the shift in mood immediately.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Arthur lies and looks away. Eames flicks his ear.

“None of that, mate. It’s honesty hour. What’s wrong?”

Arthur hesitates, looking down at his lap, then he speaks quietly. “Do I make you uncomfortable?”

“What do you mean?”

Arthur frowns. “You told me not to touch you.” Eames looks horrified and Arthur scrambles. “I mean, I can stop touching you and not be an asshole about it. I was being a dick, and I promise I can stop. I’m just … I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. I don’t want you to leave again.”

“Woah, Arthur, calm down,” Eames says, grabbing Arthur’s head between his hands. Arthur snaps his mouth shut. “I never wanted you to stop touching me.”

“But you said.”

“That’s not what I meant, mate.”

Arthur scowls in confusion and jerks his head away from Eames’ hold. “What _did_ you mean then?” They sit in silence for a few minutes, while Eames gathers his thoughts. What he says next is not anything Arthur expected.

“I like you, Arthur.”

Arthur sits dumbly, staring at Eames in shock. “What?”

“I like you, and I didn’t … I didn’t want _you_ to like _me_.”

“What?” Arthur says again.

“I’m not good for anyone. I have a lot of shite-issues and you are all I have. I don’t want to lose you because you find out that who I was and you realize that I’m not what you want.”

Arthur doesn’t know what to make of any of this. How could he not want Eames? Eames is everything to him. 

“You know, you never let me decide that for myself. You never told me anything about you.”

Eames frowns expression going guarded again, still holding onto his secrets. “There is nothing good about my past, okay? I’m not my past,” he hisses. “There’s nothing that relates to now. There’s nothing that relates to you, or us, or anything anymore.”

“Eames. There won’t be an us if you aren’t honest with me. This … all this will get worse, and I’ll end up hating you anyway.”

Eames looks at him like Arthur has wounded him, like the words have left him naked, vulnerable. The anger and fear Eames' hides is sitting just below his skin and Arthur wants to tear it out and throw them into the fire, destroy it once and for all.

“Maybe you _should_ hate me,” Eames says.

“Fuck that, Eames!” Arthur yells, then flinches because his ribs throb. With a lower voice he continues, “what makes you think like that? You saved me. We’ve been living together for months. I don’t hate you, and I don’t think I can.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Because you won’t let me! You don't trust me.”

They’re at a stalemate. It’s the same one they’ve been at before, but now their entire future together is on the line. They can’t go back from here. Arthur can’t pretend he doesn’t want more from Eames, and Eames can’t pretend he doesn’t notice.

_Eames wants me. He said so himself,_ Arthur thinks. That’s the hope he has to hang onto. He swallows the thick lump in his throat and decides that he’s going to be the one who has to do something. Eames will continue to hide from him if he doesn’t. Arthur pushes himself from sitting and kneels in front of Eames, startling him.

Arthur cups his hands around Eames’ face and slowly presses a kiss to Eames’ lips. When he pulls away he looks squarely into Eames’ eyes. “We can’t do this anymore,” he says. “I want you. I want you to stay with me. But you can’t be here if you aren’t honest with me. We can’t work as friends, or as anything else, if you hide everything from me.”

That’s all Arthur can say. He can’t promise that things will work between them if Eames is honest. But he sure as hell knows it won’t if Eames isn’t. He also doesn’t know what will happen to them in the future either. But he wants to try. “Please,” he whispers.

Eames sighs into Arthur’s hands. He looks like he wants to run away, but then Arthur can see when Eames makes a decision, the change in his posture. A hand wraps around the back of Arthur’s head, fingers toying with the curls of his hair. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll try.” Then Eames draws him closer, pressing their lips together again.

Arthur is overwhelmed because this is what he’s been wanting ever since the first time he kissed Eames. He’s so desperate for it, for more, for everything, that he presses into the kiss harder. Arthur runs his tongue along the seam of Eames’ lips and Eames parts them for him. Eames groans at the intrusion and it stirs something in Arthur. He demands more, stealing Eames’ breaths and clutching at his shoulders. Eames pulls away, gently holding Arthur back as to not hurt his ribs.

“Stop,” he says. “We can’t do this.”

Arthur whimpers.

“Shhh, no. I mean … I want to Arthur. But I don’t think I can control myself if we do this, and you’re injured. We can’t do this _now_.”

Eames runs the pad of his thumb along Arthur’s lip; it’s an intimate, tender gesture. Arthur wants to anyway, though he knows it is a bad idea. Finally he nods.

“Why don’t we go to bed, yeah?” Eames says.

They undress, Arthur carefully with Eames’ help, and climb underneath the covers before the chill night air can seep into their skin. Arthur presses himself into Eames’ arms, his nose buried in Eames’ neck. He strokes a hand over Eames’ side, reveling in the smell of him as Eames cards a hand through his hair.

It takes all the willpower Arthur has to keep the kisses light, to keep from doing something stupid and injuring himself more. But it feels so good to be able to finally touch Eames how he wants to. They finally drift off to sleep after hours of kissing lazily, stopping every once in a while before it can go farther. Despite his sore ribs, it’s the best night of sleep Arthur has had in a very long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to [night_reveals](http://night_reveals.livejournal.com) for the beta on this chapter.


	11. Chapter 11

Arthur wakes to light kisses trailing down the sensitive skin of his stomach. He’s ticklish and the muscles of his abdomen twitch as butterfly-soft pressure moves over them. Sighing with residual sleepiness, Arthur arches into the press of lips, stretching his back up off the bed and loosening his muscles.

When he yawns, a tongue slides into his mouth, interrupting it and stealing his breath. He deepens the kiss, searching with his own tongue, exploring over teeth and soft palate until he needs oxygen more than he can stand.

“Good morning,” Arthur says, smiling as he pushes Eames away. 

Eames is propped on one arm above him, smiling down. “Good morning,” he says in a sleep roughened voice.

The gruffness of it makes Arthur’s cock witch and he raises a hand to brush disorderly tufts of hair from Eames’ face. Eames bends down to steal another kiss as his hand splays over Arthur’s side, massaging absently as his tongue searches the depths of Arthur’s mouth.

Eames shifts his hips, pressing into Arthur and eliciting a throaty moan in reaction. Arthur can feel Eames grin against his lips. Eames rolls his hips again, applying sweet pressure to Arthur’s morning erection which makes Arthur moan in response. He thrusts his own hips off the bed as much as he can against Eames’ weight.

“How did you get so heavy?” Arthur gasps when he sucks in a breath of air.

“You love it,” Eames responds.

He seals his lips over Arthur’s again, shutting him up. The kissing turns more urgent as they grind themselves together. Finally Arthur can’t take it anymore; he breaks the kiss, murmuring, “Eames, please,” into the small gap between their lips.

Eames growls against him, leveling one last peck to Arthur’s lips before he moves lower, biting and sucking at his neck, the dip of his collarbone, his nipple, his navel, and the juncture of his hip. Arthur gasps and writhes, sensitive and ticklish to Eames’ attention.

Eames sucks him into his mouth and Arthur’s eyes squeeze shut as he’s overwhelmed with the slick, wet suction around his cock. He must make a noise because he feels Eames laugh around him, sending vibrations down the length of his erection to settle at the base. Eames continues to suck, picking up the pace only to slow it down, swirling his tongue around the sensitive head of Arthur’s cock before engulfing him down to the base again.

Arthur can feel the pressure build, can feel his balls draw up in anticipation. “Eames,” he chokes out. “I don’t think … I’m not going to last. Please.”

Eames dips down one last time, pressing his tongue along the veins of Arthur’s shaft before he pulls off with a wet pop. Instead of coming up for another kiss like Arthur expects, Eames spreads Arthur’s legs farther, pushing them back and up. It forces Arthur’s hips up and off the bedding. Arthur groans when he feels Eames’ tongue lick a wet stripe up from his tailbone to his balls. Eames sucks at the base of his cock before dipping back down to swirl around the sensitive ring of his asshole.

“Ah … ah,” is all Arthur can manage to articulate as Eames works him over. Eames’ tongue presses in firmly, urging Arthur to relax. Eames backs off, licking lines over the twitching muscle before poking back in.

It seems like an eternity of teasing, licking, sucking before Arthur finally feels the press of a slicked finger slipping inside of him. He is so loose that there is nearly no resistance at all, and he whimpers because it’s not enough. Looking down between his own legs, Arthur finds Eames staring up at him, smiling fondly, wickedly, and possessively. Arthur vaguely wonders how Eames can fit all of those emotions in to one expression. He can’t think on it long because Eames is adding another finger, slipping it in to stretch him more.

It’s still not enough. Arthur is ready and he wants more. Looking down at Eames again, he tries to form words around his tongue that has become too thick and heavy in his own mouth. “Eames, enough,” he finally manages. “I … ah … ah … I need. I need more.”

Eames, the bastard, is tonguing the stretch of Arthur’s muscle around his fingers. His other had cups over Arthur’s cock and Arthur attempts to push up into it, demanding more pressure. Eames relents, pulling his fingers free which makes Arthur shudder. His hole grasps, twitches with loss.

Eames licks at his own palm, applying as much spit as possible before wrapping his hand around his own cock. He reaches for the bottle of lube they have and pours just enough straight unto Arthur’s hole. Arthur watches as Eames lines himself up before pressing in slowly. The slide is delicious and Arthur hums his approval, bearing down to let Eames sink in with one smooth stroke. 

Eames’ eyes flutter shut and he lets out a little gasped curse. He stays still for a moment, letting Arthur adjust, before he falls forward. He catches himself on his arm just before he can crush Arthur with his weight. Capturing Arthur’s mouth in another kiss, Eames begins to rock slowly, sliding in and out of Arthur at an excruciatingly slow pace.

It’s lazy, and wonderful, and perfect. Arthur wants it to never end; he wants Eames to fuck him all day, slowly. But the pressure, the need to come builds until he can’t take it anymore and he reaches behind Eames’ legs, grabbing at his ass and urging for a quicker pace.

Eames thrusts harder, his panting leaving Arthur’s neck wet and hot. Arthur turns his head to the side, to capture the lobe of Eames’ ear between his teeth. Every time Eames pushes in, Arthur lets out a little whimper of pleasure, of encouragement. He’s close, so close, but his cock is trapped between his stomach and Eames with not enough friction to bring him to climax.

He reluctantly releases Eames’ ear and pushes him up a little to grab at his own prick. He tugs lightly at it as Eames continues to drive into him. Eames looks down at him fiercely, lost in the pleasure of the moment. It’s a feral look which causes Arthur to bite down on his lip instinctively. Eames snaps his hips harder and wraps his own hand around Arthur’s cock, jerking in sync with Arthur’s own hand.

Eames’ pace falters and the muscles in his face lock up for a brief moment before going slack as he shouts over his orgasm. Arthur can feel the hot spill of Eames’ come inside him. Eames tries to keep the pace, pushing through his oversensitivity to fuck Arthur into orgasm, but he can’t. Arthur stops him with a touch to his thigh. Eames reluctantly pulls out, but grabs Arthur’s wrist, removing Arthur’s grip on his own cock. He bends down and sucks at Arthur again as he slips two fingers into Arthur’s wet asshole.   
  
Arthur moans without reservation, loud and strained and needy. Eames searches inside him, trying to find his prostate, but Arthur is coming from the grip of Eames’ throat and the press of his lips around his cock, before Eames can find it. Arthur shudders as Eames drinks his come and laps at his dick.

He smiles before he comes back up to kiss Arthur, wiping his hand on a scrap of cloth they keep beside the bedding. Eames uses the cloth to clean Arthur up, wiping and kissing intermittently. When he’s done he flops down beside Arthur and sighs happily.

“We doing this today? Or are we putting it off again?”

Arthur smiles, and turns to look at Eames. He strokes a hand down Eames’ sweat dampened skin. “No, the weather is good. Today is good.”

It’s been a year since Arthur went looking for Eames. A year since his injury and the strained confession of feelings. It has not been easy. Eames still has a hard time sharing his past, but they work through it. Arthur hasn’t found anything about Eames that he could hate him for, and he doesn’t understand why Eames is still so reluctant to share. But every time Eames does, it gets easier.

It’s amazing too, so amazing, because every day Arthur wakes to Eames by his side. He’s able to reach out and touch, to kiss Eames the way he wants. He can stare all he wants, without having to feel bad about it anymore. They do everything together, and it works, because they work well together.

But a year means that their supplies have run low. The city is picked over and as much as they’ve tried, they haven’t been able to grow enough of a garden to support themselves. They’ve saved as many portable things they can, and have decided to head south. Maybe they will run into populated territory; they don’t know. But at least the weather will be better. They’ll be able to live if they can grow things, or if they can find another city that isn’t empty of food.

Arthur must be making a face again, because Eames reaches over to brush the hair from his eyes. “It’ll be okay,” he says.

“I know,” Arthur answers, and he smiles. He knows everything will be alright as long as he has Eames.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [night_reveals](http://night_reveals.livejournal.com) for the beta!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] All is Violent, All is Bright](https://archiveofourown.org/works/431894) by [kansouame](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kansouame/pseuds/kansouame)




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